Fevers of Unknown Origin
by TheRealAlyshebaFan
Summary: Murdock/OC, featuring entire team. Morning humor, with chance of afternoon mayhem and evening romance.  Some violence, some language, some references to sex & general looniness.  Begins some years back and goes forward to the present.
1. Fevers of Unknown Origin

**I'm posting the first two chapters of this story. If folks hate it, or find it ridiculous, or whatever, I'll just stop there and not go on with posting it (I really need to get back to 'Season of the Witch', but am idea-free right now). If reviews are fair-to-middling to good, I'll keep it going. The OC is kind of hard to write – she's an oddball, and very prickly.**

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* * *

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They were running back from the LZ, with Hannibal chomping on a cigar and Face bickering with B.A. about the flight in from Florida. "Seriously, was it that bad? Really? Come on – man up, Bosco! He didn't do a single barrel roll –give him credit for _that_!" B.A.'s reply was indistinct but decidedly grouchy.

The Colonel glimpsed back at Murdock, who was climbing down from the chopper with a lot less of his usual bounce. Smith doubled back but slowed to a stop on the tarmac, turning back to watch Baracus and Peck amble away, laughing and arguing, and once they were gone he went back to the chopper at a slow pace, not wanting the pilot to think he was being coddled – Murdock _hated_ that. The rotors were finally slowing down, and Murdock was leaning against the door, his head down, taking slow, deep breaths. He coughed, wheezing and mumbling miserably. Hannibal had noticed the coughing as they had left Miami, and it had gotten progressively worse through the flight. Face had been too busy trying to keep B.A. from destroying the interior of the chopper to make any comments. It had been hard enough just to get Baracus to transfer from the plane from Caracas into the chopper – with all that shouting and arguing, Murdock's coughing and obvious fever had had to go down Smith's list of priorities. But not now – the pilot was clearly very ill.

"Doin' all right there, Captain?" he asked mildly, dragging on the cigar.

"Just a little tired, boss," the pilot answered. He sounded _weary_, which was unusual. Hannibal frowned, practically hearing alarm bells going off as he studied Murdock. The post-mission giddiness was missing entirely. Instead, he looked rather pale and shaky. He was _dragging_, frankly - something was clearly not right.

"You don't look too good, captain. Go down to the base hospital and check in…"

"I'm okay, sir…"

"That's an order," Hannibal said, keeping his voice gentle and calm. He rarely gave Murdock _orders_, really. More like firm suggestions that implied immediate obedience. Murdock was independent-minded, and as headstrong as a colt – of his boys, Murdock was the most willful and mule-headed, to the point that Face and B.A. often wondered why he wasn't as careful with them. As if they didn't already know. With Murdock, it took a lot more _care_.

He put a fatherly hand on Murdock's shoulder. "C'mon. You can chat up the pretty nurses, eh?"

"I 'spect I'd just barf all over 'em," Murdock mumbled, sounding uncharacteristically pitiful. His shoulders slumped. "And then they wouldn't want to talk to me. They'd just show me the bill from the…the cleaners…" He coughed again, a painful sound that made Hannibal's own ribs hurt. "I haven't been gettin' much sleep lately, boss. Just…nightmares and…I'm just real tired, that's all…" His voice trailed and he squeezed his eyes shut against the lights of a fighter jet cruising in.

"Like I said, head over to the hospital. You have your meds, right?"

Murdock nodded, and Hannibal sighed. The pilot usually handled that in stride, without making any comments about all the medications he had to take, but there were times Smith could really tell that Murdock resented the whole damned business, particularly when he had to get his prescriptions refilled, which required a talk with the base psychologist. Considering that the team hopped from base to base, country to country, disaster to disaster, it meant a different head shrinker and another long, exhausting diagnostic exam and skepticism from the doc about how much mental illness really touched Murdock and how much of it was really just stress, Oscar-worthy acting, and a longing for… Hannibal frowned, studying the wavering captain. Longing for what? Freedom? Peace? A decent night's sleep?

"Come on, I'll walk you down there," Hannibal said at last.

"Don't you have to…to…debrief the general or somethin'?" Murdock asked, his voice strangely flat. Hannibal eyed him, wishing it wasn't so dark. With better lighting, he'd be able to tell if the younger man was just coming down with a bug or if he was having some kind of episode. He prayed it was just a bug – that would be easy enough to deal with.

"That can wait – he's probably asleep anyway."

Hannibal could have sworn he heard Murdock mutter 'Lucky bastard', but wasn't sure. He put his arm around Murdock's shoulders and walked toward the infirmary, growing increasingly aware that he was basically keeping Murdock propped up. By the time he reached the door to the base hospital, he was more than alarmed – he was getting kind of scared. The pilot wasn't speaking, and he was stumbling with almost every step.

The door opened and a sleepy medic answered, looking slightly disgruntled at being awakened, but when he saw the sickly pallor of the well-known pilot, who was leaning against his CO, his expression changed to real concern. "What's wrong?"

"He's sick," Hannibal said, feeling that being succinct would be best at this point.

Fillmore, the chief attending, came out of an exam room and glimpsed around the medic, frowning. "Colonel Smith…y'all are back early."

"Yeah. But our captain here isn't doing so well."

Murdock chose that moment to finally collapse, dropping to his knees first and then pitching forward, halfway inside the room. Hannibal sighed and Fillmore nodded. He and the medic picked the unconscious captain up and carried him to a bed. "On several drugs, right?"

"Yeah. They're all in his file."

"Right." Fillmore pulled open a file cabinet drawer and poked around, finally pulling out Murdock's thick chart. "Yeah. Yeah…lotsa stuff, 'sides a bunch of R-X's." He scanned the list of meds and shook his head. "Hell of a pilot. Makes damn good barbecue, too." That got a smile from Hannibal.

"The best – barbecue _and_ pilot." Hannibal didn't particularly like the way the medic had deposited Murdock on the gurney, but at least he was being checked over, and Smith recalled that Fillmore had treated the pilot two years ago, after he had taken a bullet somewhere in Turkey. He remembered that night – the terror in Murdock's eyes, on top of the searing pain, and Fillmore's level-headedness. At least Murdock was in good hands – Fillmore had gone out of his way to avoid scaring the traumatized pilot then, and had actually been remarkably patient with him as he'd recovered (a feat in and of itself, considering how much Murdock had resisted being bedbound and had tried to escape from the hospital _three times, _in spite of the gunshot wound). Come to think of it, that mission in Ankara had been just six months after Hannibal had sprung Murdock out of that hospital in Mexico. Could it really have only been three years?

"High fever," the medic said to Fillmore. "Caught a bug, I think. We'll take care of him, sir."

Smith nodded. "I'll be back tomorrow morning."

* * *

"Virus, huh?" Face sat back on his beach chair and waggled his feet in the kiddie pool. "Damn. Poor guy – he hates being sick. It's hard enough just gettin' him to go to sleep. I'll take him some books and video games…I'm sure I've got some spare _Playboys_, too." He grinned, knowing Murdock had a strange antipathy toward porn.

"Good idea, but he was still out cold when I checked on him this morning." Hannibal watched B.A. remove a tire from a Jeep and roll it away. "Fever of one-oh-four. But at least he's sleeping…and Fillmore said there were no night terrors, no screaming…" He sighed and took a sip of his coffee.

"Jesus…" Face shook his head. "I'm not sure if that's good or bad."

"Crazy fool…he wasn't actin' right 'fore we left," B.A. said from his position beside the Jeep, where he was shoving the jack underneath. "He looked all pale and wobbly. Didn't say or do anything really…_crazy_…the whole time."

"We've been pushing him too hard," Hannibal said, frowning. "Or, actually, I have."

He glanced up and saw Sergeant Buchanan coming toward them, and glanced at Face, who grinned, leaning forward, ready for another interesting interview. She was a rough'n'tumble little redhead, and as usual, she was wearing a grease-stained flight suit and a baseball cap. The suit only barely concealed the fact that she was female, and at first Face had thought she really was a guy, but his faultless 'girl-dar' had kicked in and he had declared her to be very definitely female, and that underneath that flight suit was 'one hell of a nice figure', plus a more than satisfactory rack (which had gotten Peck a sharp reprimand from Hannibal). Murdock had, with only a vague glance at her, declared her a 'right snarlin' little Goodbye Halo', which he had never explained.

Sergeant Buchanan wore her red hair in braids that she kept pinned under her hat, and as usual, her face was streaked with dirt and grease from the planes and choppers she practically lived with. Not even Murdock spent as much time as she did on the airfield or in the hangars.

Everyone on base feared Buchanan. She had a vile temper, could cuss a blue streak when provoked, could fight like a devil, drink anybody under a table, and was one _hell_ of a good pilot. Not as good as Murdock, which was a major sticking point to her, and if anyone brought up this little fact, she tended to get terribly pissed. Hannibal suspected that with years and experience, she might come somewhere close to Murdock's level of insanity-laced brilliance at the yoke, but right now, she was still just a greenhorn. A frighteningly talented greenhorn, but…

"Sergeant," Hannibal said, friendly-like, standing. "Good to see you."

She gave Smith only a cursory salute and glared at Face, who was clad only in swimming trunks. "Boys."

B.A. greeted her in a more friendly manner, as she was a mechanical whiz, like himself. She almost smiled at him, and glanced toward Murdock's grill. "Where's the nutjob?" she asked sharply. She was, they all knew, a native of Tennessee, from some poverty-stricken 'holler' from which she had escaped into the Army, and was the daughter of a Scots-born coal miner. According to rumor, she had been born aboard a ship bringing her parents over from Ayr. It was also rumored that her father had been running from the law back in Scotland, but no one knew for sure. No one was brave enough to ask _her_.

"Not feeling well, I'm afraid. Some kind of virus," Hannibal informed her. "I'm quite sure he will be in your prayers tonight."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why would I pray for him?" It seemed that, to her, Murdock was just a rival for air supremacy, and the fact that he was only ever distractedly polite to her seemed to annoy her even more than if he had taunted her about being a better pilot. Unlike most people, however, Murdock never made any comments about her, and had seemed to accept her belligerence as a matter of course.

"Ah, c'mon, Sergeant," Face said, wondering again what her first name was. He had done a bit of digging one day, out of sheer curiosity, but had only found the initials 'S.A.', which could mean anything. Susan Alice? Sally Augusta? "That's not nice."

She gave him another cold, narrow look before turning back to Smith. "Any chance he might die?"

"Murdock? No. You couldn't kill him with an axe. And I'm so glad to see you care," Hannibal grinned back, determined to not let her think he believed she was being insulting. She frowned back, and he saw that she had a black eye and more smudges of dirt and grime on her face than usual. "Been fighting again, Sergeant?" he asked her sternly.

"Got into a tussle with some stupid chick," Buchanan shrugged. "Just got outta the stockade." She walked away, and Face shook his head.

"Under all that grease and mean is…just more grease and mean."

* * *

"Ach, sittin' up right vigorous-like and able to take some nourishment, me lads," Murdock said, smiling a little, but the light wasn't in his eyes yet. Even his Scottish accent sounded flat and uninspired, which worried Face immensely.

"Hey, y'think you can take a walk later?" he asked, sitting down by the pilot's bed. "We'll just cruise by the women's quarters, see how things are shakin', eh?" He grinned at Murdock, who shrugged slightly.

B.A. shook his head. "Oughta be restin', 'stead'a walkin' around, Face." He frowned at Murdock. "You look like hell."

"Yes, and horizontal stripes make you look fat," Murdock nodded back. "I still don't feel too good, I'll admit, but I'll be up and about soon. Doc says it's pneumonia an' some kinda weird tropical virus that, if it kills me, will be named after me! How cool would that be, huh? _Murdock's Syndrome_...sounds like a chess move. Anyhow…I can't hold much down, really, and I seem to just wanna sleep a lot."

Hannibal frowned, concerned. "Nightmares?"

"No. Nights are right foggy, actually." He picked listlessly at his sheets. "Days are kinda dreamy, too. Weird feelin', you know?"

"Oh, you'll never guess who came by this mornin', askin' about you," Face said, grinning. "Sergeant S.A. Buchanan!"

"Who?" Murdock asked, brow furrowed.

"You know – the Hellcat."

"Impolite," Hannibal said, giving Face a warning look.

"But she is…that, you have to admit," Face defended himself. "You know her, Murdock. The little redhead - thinks she's a better pilot than you?"

"Least she ain't crazy," B.A. pointed out. "I mean…well…not much crazier than most pilots, I guess."

Murdock still looked confused, and finally shrugged. "Whatever. Listen. I want outta here, Hannibal. I know I'm prob'ly grounded 'til I'm well, but I ain't fit for sittin' in this place. I'm bored." He tried not to sound whiny, but he knew he did. He wasn't into just sitting around, much less lying on his back with nothing to do but count ceiling tiles.

"We'll get you some more books and video games, Captain. Otherwise, until you're well, you're staying in bed. Lots of liquids, Fillmore said, right?"

"Mm," Murdock nodded, looking grumpy. "Get me some cards, Face. Unmarked, preferably. All things considered, I still like Solitaire to be a bit of a surprise." He yawned. "And shut out the lights 'fore ya leave, eh?" He fell onto his back again, moved onto his side, adjusted his pillow and was soon asleep. Hannibal and the other men left the hospital quietly, and went off in opposite directions. Face, liking the idea of strolling around the womens' quarters quite a lot, decided to take a detour down there. He was turning a corner when he smacked into the Hellcat, who gave him a venomous glare.

"Watch out, dumbass!" she snapped.

He ignored her barb, knowing that with her, it was a lot of bluster. "Where're you headed, baby?" he asked.

"None'a your damn' business." But he noted that she was holding a blood-soaked cloth tight against her arm.

"Cut yourself? Or did somebody finally just snap?" he asked with a grin.

"Shuddup, asshole."

Face shook his head, snickering, and ambled on toward his target. Buchanan continued to the hospital and went inside, where Fillmore looked up from a chart and frowned at her. "Sergeant."

"Captain…sir…I cut my arm." She lifted the cloth and he observed the gash in silence for a moment and shook his head.

"How?"

"Caught it on a nail," she said tiredly, already resigned to stitches and a tetanus shot.

"So now we've got _two_ difficult pilots in here. Fortunately, one's already asleep," Fillmore said, directing her to sit down on a stool so he could examine the wound. "Pretty deep gash, I'm afraid. Stitches…probably six or seven. Go sit down on a bed – we're stacked up right now. Be quiet – I've got patients asleep in there." He gestured toward the door to the recovery room.

She mumbled under her breath and went into the ward. She looked around the large room, noting that five of the ten beds were occupied by injured or sick soldiers. She made her way down the center aisle, peeking down at charts at the ends of each of the beds, until she came to Captain Murdock's. She frowned at the chart, looked around to note that everyone was still asleep, and snatched it up, scanning the notes hurriedly.

"Green…" she whispered.

"What the hell are you doin' readin' my chart?"

She dropped the clipboard, flinching when it clattered on the floor. Captain Murdock was sitting up, eyes narrowed, glaring at her with righteous anger. She looked around, wishing a hole might suddenly appear in the floor for her to jump into. But no such help came and she took a deep breath.

"Ain't you never hearda HIPAA laws? Oh…yeah, you're the Hellca-…er…Sergeant…what was it again? Some Scotch clan, right? MacPherson…no…McDonald? Kincaid? Buchanan…right! Buchanan. From Tennessee."

"I wasn't reading it. It fell down!" she snapped.

"Liar." He had turned the light on by his bed, and she took a nervous step backwards. "You were readin' it. What's it say, by the way? They won't tell me exactly what I've got, 'sides pneumonia."

"I…uh…didn't see. Like I said, it had fallen down…" she reiterated.

"What does 'green' mean, then?" he asked her sharply, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Nothing. I cut my arm, okay? Caught it on a damn' nail and they're prob'ly givin' me a tetanus shot…"

"Yeah, they do that a lot 'round here. Ever' time I get a gunshot wound or a case of the sniffles, it's 'Hey, ho, let's break out the needles and jab this poor sucker'. In my opinion, if God wanted us to get s' many shots, He'd've supplied us with portals. But what does 'green' mean? I heard you say green. Is that, like, some kind of an alert? Green alert? Is that on my chart? Am I bein' quarantined?" He looked nervous and glanced toward the doors. "_Should I run_? But if I'm bein' quarantined, shouldn't I be alone? That don't make sense…do they have it, too?" He gestured to indicate the other soldiers, all of who were still sleeping.

"No. No." She shook her head. "Nothing like that. It's just a virus – it'll clear up soon. You'll be fine." She flinched when she realized that she sounded rather kind.

"Oh." He sighed and sat back against his pillows, propping himself up against the headboard. "Damn this place is boring. But I've been in far more entertainin' hospitals before, lemme tell ya." He gave her one of his patented crooked grins, and she looked down. The clipboard was still on the floor, and she snatched it up, hanging it back on its hook. "I was in one, once, coupla years ago, and I provided all the entertainment…though I admit, the staff didn't seem to appreciate it when I started doin' the moonwalk on the cafeteria tables…but the other patients liked it. We did the whole dance from _Thriller_, in fact."

"So I've heard."

"Yeah. 'Howlin' Mad', that's me. What about you? What's your nickname?"

"Hellcat," she answered coldly.

"Well, I think that might require some work, baby. You might try demonstratin' some good manners, some graciousness as befits a Southern belle…you could try for…Water Lily…or Peacock…no, I don't like peacocks. They screech, and they attack chickens…" He pondered carefully, and finally gave her a bright smile, clearly pleased to be talking to somebody, even her. "Magnolia Blossom!"

"I am not a Southern belle!" she snapped at him. "Belles make me sick, anyhow. All that simperin' and flutterin' eyelashes, an' actin' helpless. I've been takin' care of myself since I was fifteen, not flouncin' around wearin' lace. I fix planes and I fly 'em. Better'n you, too, _Captain_. And besides that, I wasn't born in Tennessee. I was born on the sea…during a storm."

"Not a belle, but definitely a rebel – Scotland's where the first rebels came from, eh?" He looked amused then. "Really? You were born on the sea, huh? Like Venus?"

"What?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Venus…goddess of love and beauty, in Greek mythology…no, wait, _Aphrodite_ was the Greek version. Venus was Roman. Aphrodite was born on the sea…on a half-shell…goddess on a halfshell. Ever seen that paintin'? Botticelli, right?"

"Oh. Right. I have no idea." She was glad for the wound on her arm – it gave her something to do with her hands. She pressed the cloth more tightly against it and looked around the ward, taking in the sleeping soldiers and listening to a cricket chirping.

A weird sort of silence fell between them, and she fully expected him to make some kind of comment about how the notion of _beauty_ could never apply to her, but he didn't. He only continued to observe her carefully, even though he looked terribly tired and pale. But there was a bit of light in his eyes, and he still looked amused.

Fillmore came in then, looking harried. "Oh, Sergeant Buchanan, sit down, please. Still bleeding?"

"Like a stuck pig," Murdock said from his bed, looking quite cheerful in spite of his illness. Fillmore bit back a smirk and ordered Buchanan to sit down on a bed. He sat beside her and began working on her wound. It was on her bicep, and the nail had sliced right through her tattoo of what appeared to be a lion, like the one found on the Great Seal of Scotland – a fierce red lion against a yellow shield.

"Hey, cool lion," Murdock chirped from his bed. Buchanan looked back at him for a second, then winced as Fillmore began sewing up the wound. "Hey, make a lightning bolt, Fillmore. That'd look real cool, doncha think?" He rolled up the sleeve of his hospital gown. "Lookee…I got a Ranger tat here…" Buchanan couldn't keep from looking at it, and her mouth twitched – it was an Airborne Rangers shield on his muscled bicep. "And a Screamin' Eagles tat here…" He pulled the collar down on his shirt to reveal a vicious-looking eagle, wings spread, talons clutching rockets. "You got any other tats?"

"Quiet, Captain Murdock. Go back to sleep."

"She woke me up!" Murdock protested. "She was readin' my chart and said somethin' about 'green'. Whatcha think she was talkin' 'bout?" he asked eagerly.

Fillmore sighed wearily and gave Buchanan a narrow look, and she looked down, glad for the dirt on her face, because it covered her blush. He got up and snatched up Murdock's chart, scanning it quickly. "Eye color – green," he said, and put it back. "Now lie still and go to sleep, Captain."

Murdock leaned to the side, so he could see around Fillmore, and studied Buchanan carefully, clearly curious. "You was lookin' up my _eye color_? Seriously? Whyn'cha just ask?"

"I was not!" she snapped, knowing Fillmore could see her red cheeks through the grime.

"Be respectful of your superiors, Sergeant Buchanan," Fillmore warned. "Though that would be a change of pace for you. Punched an officer last week, didn't you?"

"She called me…something." She stiffened.

"A cab?" Murdock called, but at least now he was lying down again. Fillmore smiled, shaking his head. Buchanan bristled visibly, but Fillmore had a firm hold on her arm and continued with the stitching. Fillmore looked at her when he was finished, and shook his head.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Sergeant Buchanan, but have you considered…anger management counseling?"

She drew in her breath, ready to expel a string of epithets, but that would only prove his point. She looked down and shook her head. "Can I go now?"

"Maybe she called you by your full name!" Murdock called. "What is your full name, by the way?"

"None of your damned business!" Buchanan snarled, standing up, forgetting to be calm. "Thanks…sir," she mumbled, and strode toward the doors. Fillmore got up and turned Murdock's light back off. "Have the nurse give you a tetanus shot, Sergeant," he said as an aside, before she banged the doors shut behind her. "Go to sleep, Captain, or no Jello with your breakfast."

"Aw…man…that's just cruel. Id'n that in the Geneva Convention? 'No Jello deprivation'?"

Fillmore was laughing by now. He shook his head wearily and clapped Murdock on the shoulder. "Good night, Captain. Sleep well – that's an order."

* * *

**Note**: Goodbye Halo won the 1988 Kentucky Oaks, but was unfortunate to come up against two other outstanding individuals, Winning Colors and Personal Ensign, in the Breeders' Cup Distaff, and was described by _The Thoroughbred Record_ as a 'snarling, scrappy little filly'. She was a real favorite of mine.

Opinions will be appreciated! I just hope Buchanan's not too unlikeable so far. She does improve. A little.


	2. Like a Goat to Skiing

Murdock's listlessness lingered, even after Fillmore was able to report that he did have a bit of his usual manic bounce back. Still, he reported to Colonel Smith that the pilot still didn't seem to be quite himself. "Sleeps a lot, actually. He gets tired easily. I drew some blood and we're doing a full panel, to see what might be going on, but in the meantime, I'm letting him loose again. He's grounded for another two weeks, though – no arguments."

It had been a week in that hospital bed, doing nothing but playing video games, reading _The Art of War_, and playing Solitaire, so Murdock was delighted to finally be back in his own quarters. He was amused to see that someone had washed all his clothes and lined his shoes up under his bed. Face had gotten him a new shaving razor, and so he took some extra time to get rid of the stubble he had allowed to grow during his confinement. He whistled cheerfully as he left his tent, making his way over to Face's little kiddie pool, where the conman was soaking his feet and nursing a cut on his leg.

"Hey, dude, how ya doin'?" Face asked him kindly, as Murdock pulled up a seat and picked up his guitar. He began strumming the strings, finding 'G', and began picking out 'Mama Tried'.

"I'm okay," Murdock shrugged. "Who washed all my clothes?"

"B.A. and me. We made sure to get some nice lilac-scented soap, too," Face grinned. Murdock glared at him and resumed playing Merle's classic song about not listening to your parents and the tragic consequences that usually followed. "_I turned twenty-one in prison doin' life without parole…no one could turn me right, but Mama tried, Mama tried. Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied…so I've only myself to blame, 'cause Mama tried…"_

Face wasn't entirely convinced that Murdock was back to his old self – he looked weary, even now. Besides that, the pilot didn't usually sing songs about _prison_, but he decided to leave it for now. He cheered a little when Murdock started singing Georgia Satellite's 'Keep Your Hands To Yourself', and began singing along. They were into the second chorus when Murdock stopped singing and sat back in his chair. Face was startled to see Sergeant Buchanan standing there, her arms crossed, as belligerent as ever. Her face, however, was clean. She had nice cheekbones, clear, wide storm-gray eyes, and a surprisingly pretty little nose. And freckles, though not as many as would be expected on a redhead. In fact – and Face was a enthusiastic connoisseur of the female form - her skin was soft-looking and clear.

"I see you didn't die after all, Captain Murdock," she said, her voice only _slightly_ acid.

"Naw, baby, it'll take more'n a virus to kill me," he said, and began playing 'Honky Tonk Women'. "Whatcha need? Wanna know my height? Six-one. Weight, maybe? Last I looked, I was about one-eighty…a bit thin, I admit, but you know I'm right wiry." He flashed her another sharp grin. "I got a birthmark on my hip…shaped like an avocado. All the Murdocks of that Ilk have that birthmark. It means we are, in fact, the rightful heirs to the throne of France, doncha know. Forget that damn' House of Orleans. _Ah speet in zee general direction ahf zee House d' Orleans_!" He gestured to Peck. "_Ah! Zeez Eengleesh! Look at heem! Ee doesn't even know how to properly braise a shickahn!_"

Face looked at Murdock, flummoxed, but the pilot hadn't taken his eyes off Buchanan. She finally flinched and looked properly disdainful, which was what he was expecting. She finally turned and stalked off, toward the hangars. Murdock put down his guitar and stretched his legs out, thinking something over carefully before he apparently made a decision. He picked up his guitar again and began playing '(You're) The Devil in Disguise'.

"What was that about?" Face finally asked.

"Nothin'. _'You look like angel…walk like an angel…talk like an angel…but I got wise…you're the devil in disguise! Oh yes you are!_'" Face joined in, and finished the song with a flourish, causing B.A. to throw a boot at them. In spite of his illness, however, Murdock was able to smack the boot away with the guitar, sending it back to the exasperated mechanic, and declaring it a home run.

* * *

Murdock wandered over to the hangars at sunset, knowing not to travel too far afield at his strangely weakened state. He didn't like not being under all his own powers, but he wasn't stupid enough to wear himself out and have to sit down somewhere unfamiliar. Most of the guys who worked out there were strangers to him and he preferred familiar faces and territory, if possible. Still, there was at least one person out there that he knew and he was curious about the lay of the land, so to speak.

Sure enough, Sergeant Buchanan was working on the rotor of a big, ugly Chinook, muttering as she tried to get some kind of debris out of it – an extremely important job for any flight mechanic. Debris in a rotor could cause utter disaster – this he knew from painful personal experience. Murdock stopped and observed her up there, dangling so precariously but clearly comfortable and even happy on or in any type of flying machinery. He gave her a wolf whistle, and wasn't surprised when she flinched, hung on for dear life, and finally ducked her head to look down at her from under her arm.

"You jackass!" she yelled. "You coulda made me fall!"

"Ah, but you're an expert mechanic, baby. You won't fall."

She huffed and finally pried the debris out of the rotor, and Murdock watched as she climbed down, hands on his hips, definitely for sure not thinking that she had a pretty nice figure, for a hellcat. When she was finally on solid ground – territory she also seemed to find unsettling – she glared up at him, and wiped her nose with her forearm, leaving a dirty streak across her nose. She was filthy – covered with axle grease, dirt, sweat and grime. In her hand was a wrench, and she was squeezing it tightly to her chest with both hands.

"What do you want?" she asked him at last, and he could have sworn she looked more frightened than angry.

"I understand you're a hell of a pilot," he nodded, and remembered Hannibal's words to him, three years ago back in Mexico.

"Better'n you. I'm the best…sir."

He grinned, pleased with her answer. "Sure you are, baby."

"Stop calling me 'baby'."

"So what's your name? S.A. must mean something."

"Nothing to you…sir…I mean…I don't tell anybody. Only my CO knows, and he ain't talkin' neither."

He sighed. "Okay. Never mind. I'm just here out of politeness – you paid me a visit, so I am returning the favor, as my Mama taught me to show proper manners, even to belligerent people. I figured that since you love flyin', and I love flyin', we could talk about…oh, I dunno…chicken breeding or the stock market or somethin'…"

Her mouth twitched and she looked down.

"Wait a second! Did I almost get a _smile_ out of the Hellcat? Really? No…not possible! What's your favorite chopper?" he asked her eagerly, stepping a little closer.

"Huey," she mumbled, looking down.

"Ah-ha-ha! Me too! They're so damned cool, aren't they? 'Course, I also love Chinooks…ugly as sin and slower'n Congress when the whorehouses are open, but Lord have mercy, they're _righteous_, ain't they?"

"Yes," she nodded, and he actually saw her teeth that time. She was smiling. A right pretty smile, too, he admitted, but that wasn't really the point. He had somebody to talk about flying with at last. Hannibal just considered planes and choppers a means of transport and protection. Face only seemed _resigned_ about flying, and took no real joy out of it, and B.A….well, there was no point bringing the subject up with _him_. He was almost bouncing now, he was so excited. Not even other pilots he knew seemed all that interested in the subject. He hoped she was – it was obvious she loved flying as much as he did, anyway.

That afternoon, he had charmed a general's secretary away from her desk, and while she'd been gone he had hacked into her computer and brought up everything he could find on Sergeant S.A. Buchanan (her full name was not revealed, however), and he was impressed to see her ratings from the academy, and her flight record was outstanding. Of course, she couldn't take part in combat, but she was the highest rated transport and evac pilot around besides himself (and that wasn't even his specialty), and her CO had commended her for 'an extremely steady hand and outstanding maneuvering skills', and that 'if it were not for her sex, Sergeant Buchanan would easily rise to the ranks of combat pilot'. Personally, however, Murdock was glad she was female – she wouldn't have to see the horrors of combat, and he hoped to God she never would.

"C'mon, I'll buy you a really awful roast beef sandwich and we can debate Chinooks and Hueys and their many, many merits."

"A Huey's better'n a _Chinook_," she said, rolling her eyes, but she put the wrench down anyway, and glanced back at the monster she had been working on. She was looked around then, a little nervous. "A Chinook isn't even really a fightin' chopper."

"Aw, hell, but it can be. If you know how to turn it right, you can knock over all kinds of stuff with 'em, and of course the rotors are real good for deflectin' bullets. Come on!" He started to grab her arm, but stopped himself in time, suspecting that this girl didn't like being touched. He didn't either, come to think of it, so he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and waited for her. "Okay, so wash your face and change or whatever and I'll be waitin' over here…or over there…aw, hell, you'll find me!"

* * *

"I was really thinking about being a sniper. I'm a dead shot," she said, shaking her head. The roast beef sandwich _was_ awful – the gravy was too salty, the side of potatoes had come out of a box, and the Dr. Pepper she was drinking was more carbon than sugar. But for the past hour, she had sat at a table in base PX, talking with Captain Murdock about planes and choppers, and relishing every minute of it. "Lethal, they said during training. But then somebody threw me into a flight simulator, for the fun of it, and I took to it right off. Like a duck to water."

She had washed her face and put on clean fatigues and a T-shirt, and had removed her cap. Her hair was still up in those tight, pinned-up braids, and she still looked cautious and wary, but at least she was being polite. So far. He had even managed to get her to smile a couple of times during their conversation.

"Or a goat to water skis," he grinned, and she looked away, her cheeks turning slightly pink. "I'm not too good at shootin'," he admitted. He had only ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, and had only eaten half of it. He had, however, consumed his bag of chips and most of his bottle of Michelob. "Fair, but not great."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "So now you can say there's somethin' you're bettern' me at, eh? I didn't do much huntin', back home. A lot of the guys I knew back there had this notion that if it moved, it was to be hunted, stuffed and mounted…and that was just the girls they were chasin'." He shook his head. "I'd get a deer sometimes, but only for the meat. Nothin' like venison chili, y'know."

"Right." There was that little hint of a smile that he was now eager to see. She still had her sharp Hellcat claws, and he was ready for them, but her hackles hadn't gone up in almost an hour now. She seemed almost relaxed, in fact, and had warmed to the subject of choppers and planes as they had talked. Some other soldiers were milling around, and some had seemed surprised to see her there at all, but as Murdock outranked them all they hadn't disturbed them.

"So you did some huntin' back home?" he asked her.

"Yes. Most of my life. Daddy gave me my first rifle when I was eight."

"_Eight_?"

"Yeah. I got a squirrel next day. I grew up in the mountains, actually, right above a God-forsaken little place called Baxter Holler. He figured I ought to know how to survive, so he taught me how…y'know…'_Country folks can survive'._ I really did learn to live off the land. He insisted I learn how to fight, how to use a gun, a rifle, a knife…make homemade wine, grow my own 'maters, and so forth…one time, he took me out into the woods and then just…left me there, all alone, to fend for myself. I did okay." She looked down at the miserable plate of roast beef in front of her and pushed it away.

His eyes widened a little, thinking about that, wondering how old she had been, and what kind of bastard did that to his only child, particularly a little girl who ought to have playing with dolls or gabbing on the phone with her friends – but he wasn't going to press the issue. So he nodded and picked at his sandwich, but just couldn't make himself eat it. "So your daddy was from Scotland?" he finally asked, figuring that to be a relatively safe topic.

"Yes. He was from the north shore of Loch Lomond, actually. My mother died…not…not long after she had me."

"Oh, yeah…_the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond_," he sang. "You were born on the boat, right? I heard you was born on a boat," he shrugged at her raised eyebrows.

"Right." She fumbled with his empty chip bag. "She died while still at sea. Daddy said she never was very strong."

He studied her, seeming to recognize that she neither wanted nor expected sympathy. "I was born in the back of a pickup truck," Murdock smiled at her. "My mother was pullin' cotton, someplace near Dallas, and went into labor. They shoved her into a flatbed and…pop…out I came. Nine pounds of wet, bloody, screamin' ugly."

"I'm sure you weren't _ugly_," she said softly. "I…I mean, you probably were as presentable as any other baby."

"Eh…they used me to wean calves, first few months of my life." He shrugged. "Why were they sailin' to America? I didn't think folks did that any more."

Buchanan shrugged. "It doesn't matter any more." She eyed him, her nervousness coming back in the wake of his questions. "He wasn't wanted, by the way. By…by the law, I mean. He was an honest man. Just poor…he wanted something else. Always seemed like he did, anyway, but he…he wasn't a criminal." Her voice sharpened, and she looked defensive, folding her arms.

"I didn't say he was," Murdock shook his head. "And it ain't my business anyway. Hey, I gotta get back or Hannibal'll have me flayed alive. See ya later, eh?" He stood up and drank down the rest of his beer. "Maybe next time I'll tell you how to properly crash land a Chinook, eh?"

"Um…next ti-…? Oh…oh…er…yes. Okay."

"Good. It's a date!"

He grinned, snatched up his uneaten sandwich and trash and tossed it all into the barrel before ambling away, hands in his pockets, leaving Sergeant S.A. Buchanan bewildered, blushing and elated all at once - not that she would have ever admitted to either. She drank down the last of her awful Dr Pepper and walked back to the hangars, lost in her thoughts. She ignored two grunts who made comments about her freckles, which surprised them both, and continued on toward her quarters.


	3. Osprey

**I hope her Christian name isn't _too_ weird. I like female characters with unusual names that remain feminine and give the girl some _oomph_. And so far, she appears to have oomph in spades. She will become even more oomph-y as time goes on.  
**

**

* * *

**

"You're out of commission, Murdock," Hannibal said, lighting his cigar. "Or at least that's what General Stanford said this morning. You can't go with us this time 'round - you have been officially grounded."

The captain sat back in his seat, appalled. "You're joking! No TV, either? Can I talk on the phone?"

Hannibal shook his head, smiling. "I don't joke about that. Consider this a well-deserved vacation. At least you're stateside…you can go into town and…er…wander about."

Murdock wasn't happy about this at all. Granted, he had been coughing a lot lately, except that yesterday, he hadn't coughed much and was trying to convince himself that he felt better. But he really didn't. Not even his meal with the Hellcat and their talk about aircraft had made him feel much better _physically_. Mentally, yeah. His headache had vanished while talking with her, and he had been in a much better humor when he'd made it back to his cramped quarters, which he shared with Face. Peck had ruined his mood, however, by returning from a date with some little blonde, and he had insisted on regaling Murdock with a blow-by-blow account of the evening's festivities.

"What if I'm better day after tomorrow? Then could I go?"

"Name one person who got over pneumonia and a nasty virus like this one in just two days," Hannibal said, smiling, not wanting to make Murdock feel any worse. "It's bed rest and lots of liquids for you, Captain, and I have to agree with Fillmore about that. You need rest. You look…_worn_."

Murdock sighed. There was no use arguing, particularly since Hannibal had to go and be _right_. He was still less than one-hundred percent well. He knew he had to be fit to fly, at least according to Army regulations –he had flown with gunshot wounds, head injuries, and imaginary ducks sitting in the co-pilot's seat beside him, and the Army hadn't given him much crap about that, aside from freaking-out generals and enraged sergeants in the passenger seats. Oh well, he thought, deciding to be philosophical about it. Standing up slowly, refusing to admit that the world was spinning a bit, he nodded and left Hannibal's office without saluting.

He walked slowly, and stopped to watch a Black Hawk fly over, terrifyingly beautiful as always. He frowned, miserable that he was officially grounded for at least two weeks, and even worse, he would have nothing to do during that time. To make matters even _worse_ – and he was glad Hannibal hadn't brought it up – the holidays were coming up. Thanksgiving had passed with its usual degree of misery, even when he'd roasted a huge turkey for the guys and they had sat down two days before the holiday, eating themselves silly and playing their annual touch football game on the field behind the barracks (Murdock outsprinting B.A. to the goal twice, but he wasn't built for blindside tackles, whether serving or receiving them). But Hannibal had left the next day to visit his sister, and B.A. had gone to Chicago to visit his mother, and Face had also left for Ohio to visit _somebody_, and Murdock had found himself alone on the base, with only a few other lonely servicemen around, all with no one to go home to. He had gotten rather drunk, tossed cards into a hat, and slept through most of the day, avoiding sunlight and playing his guitar to the moon.

Now, Christmas was just two weeks away, and he knew that even if he were well by then, he would still have no one to go home to. What was back in Texas, besides a family he didn't really mesh with any more, all fairly uncertain about his mental status? Granted, they had all sent him Christmas cards and warm greetings (and even a few packages of gifts of various kinds, including a Collin Street Bakery fruitcake, which B.A. had stolen from him and consumed in less than five minutes, a new personal record), and his step-father had called him on Thanksgiving day, but even he had sounded uneasy, so that Murdock hadn't brought up his situation, or his loneliness.

He went to Face's spot by his grill and sat down, his mind drifting Southwest to his home back in Texas, and what he knew would be a big family gathering and people laughing and decorating a huge tree, drinking wassl and rooting for UT. He wasn't expected back home – he was the only military man in the family – and he wasn't entirely sure he'd be welcome. Oh, sure, his step-mother would greet him kindly and make sure he was fed to the point of bursting, but he couldn't imagine all those kids crawling all over him, or anybody really being able to find much to say to him. Polite honorifics, 'How's your Mama an' them?', and avoiding topics like mental illness and politics, which to Murdock were the same thing.

It was too cold, now, for footbaths in the kiddie pool, so Face was cleaning a rifle with his usual cool efficiency, and Murdock watched in silence, no interested in the process. He didn't even really feel like getting up and grilling steaks for everybody. B.A. was cleaning some of his tools, and glanced up at Murdock.

"Hey, man, you goin' home for Christmas?" he asked kindly.

"No," Murdock answered shortly. "Guess I'll hang 'round here again. I'm grounded, anyhow." He knew he sounded vaguely bitter, but there was no point in pretending he was _happy_ about being stuck at Fort Bragg at Christmas. He was, however, being moved to an actual _house_ on base, as per his rank (and obviously some string-pulling by Hannibal) and would remain there until his team moved again. Hannibal didn't figure they were going anywhere until sometime in February, though they would continue to take on missions to various corners of the globe before being based elsewhere. The Colonel expected to be back from their upcoming mission before the New Year.

B.A. started to say something, but a brief look from Face made him stop and reconsider, and he took a different tack. "Well…you could come out to Chicago with me, man, once we get back." He had actually taken Murdock and Face with him to Chicago that past spring, and his mother had doted on both men, but had taken a particular shine to Murdock, easily recognizing the loneliness that lingered underneath all that manic energy. B.A.'s mother had also boxed her son's ears for being so cantankerous toward the pilot. "Mama's makin' turkey and all the fixin's…it'll be a late Christmas, yeah, but there'll still be presents an' decorations an' _tons_ of snow. I know you love snow, Crazy Man." Baracus knew his first task at getting home would be shoveling the damned stuff, but all things considered, it was far better than getting his butt shot at in Nicaragua.

"Uh…thanks, but…no thanks." He accepted a bottle of beer from Face and stretched his legs out. "Why don't we build a fire? I'll go kill us a pig an' we'll have a proper roast."

"Where does one go to find a pig to kill?" Face asked.

"Well…there's the Senate Armed Services Committee, for one…" Murdock muttered.

Face burst into laughter. He rubbed his cold nose and looked up to see Sergeant Buchanan there again. That woman turned up more often than a bad penny, he thought, but he was startled to see that she was wearing a warm wool coat, clean fatigues and a considerably less bellicose expression than usual. She glanced around at the men, and Face thought that she looked kind of pretty when she cleaned up. In fact, she had a rosy complexion and finely-drawn features, like one of those late nineteenth-century Gibson girls. Except that she also had claws and a tongue like a lash.

"Goin' home for Christmas, Sergeant?" Murdock asked her mildly, his voice unsettlingly flat.

"Uh…no. Hangin' 'round here, I guess." She stomped her feet a little and bounced, fighting the wearying cold. "God, I hate winter. It doesn't seem right at all." She looked down, at a loss for casual conversational topics.

"Nobody to go home to, right?" Face shook his head. "That sucks." He took a swig of his beer and glanced at Murdock, who was looking down, clearly embarrassed. Face frowned, not sure what _that_ meant. "I mean…uh…well…hey…we're leavin' soon, so…Merry Christmas, if we don't see you before then." He saluted her with his beer bottle, and she gave him a very slight nod.

She looked startled, and stared at Murdock. B.A. dropped a wrench into his toolbox. "He ain't goin'," he said, gesturing to Murdock. "He's got his wings clipped by the doctors."

"Oh."

Murdock stood up abruptly, gave B.A. a cold look and stalked off.

"Great job there, B.A. Why'ncha tell him somebody shot his dog, too?" Face said, shaking his head. "Hey, wanna come to a pig roast?" he asked Buchanan, figuring that since it was the holidays, what the hell.

"No thank you," she answered, with a shake of the head. She was watching Murdock, who was moving kind of slowly as he made his way back to his quarters. She thought briefly of following him, but decided against it and went back toward her quarters. Face sat back in his chair and twitched his nose, thinking things over. Buchanan was a vile-tempered little thing, but she was also a _pilot_, which meant she had something in common with Murdock, who didn't seem to have a lot in common with most people. Or maybe they didn't have anything in common with him. He turned in his chair to look for Murdock, but the captain was gone. Face sighed, shaking his head, and went off to find some wood.

* * *

"No furniture at all?"

Murdock looked around the empty house, frowning, and shook his head. "I'll get a card table or somethin'," he said, shrugging.

The movers had him sign a couple of forms and left him alone, and he sat down in the middle of the living room floor, found a deck of cards in his pocket and dealt out a hand of Solitaire. He played for some time, hand after hand, losing each time. He even tried singles, but that didn't help at all and sighed, looking around the room. Hannibal, he knew, had meant well, but this was just…awful.

Having been in the Army since the age of eighteen (well…_seventeen_), he was accustomed to living in Spartan conditions. Since achieving officer status, however, his conditions had improved, though not to him. Any other officer would have killed for a house like this. To him, however, this place was a nightmare.

Being single, he didn't need much space, but for some reason, the Fort Bragg housing office had 'screwed something up' and he'd ended up with a three-bedroom house on base, complete with a deck, a big fenced back yard, and a view of some river he didn't know the name of. He suspected, without tangible evidence beyond a notion of how the guy thought, that Hannibal had pulled not just strings but several ropes and chains, because this damned place was _huge_. He had considered calling his CO and saying something about it, but the Colonel would just feign ignorance of the whole thing and tell him to enjoy the quiet and privacy.

That was just the thing. Quiet and privacy were two things Murdock was not used to. He was accustomed to either being in mental hospitals or cramped tents with B.A. and Face, arguing and laughing and throwing things at each other, and telling Speedy Gonzales jokes at three in the morning, until Hannibal – complaining of having to be more of a camp counselor than a CO – came in and told them to cut it out and go to sleep, dammit.

He lost another hand of Solitaire, sighed, and lay down on the carpeted floor, staring at the ceiling. He had nothing whosoever to do, besides an appointment with the camp psychologist at three that afternoon. Six hours from now, he thought, glancing at the clock over the freaking _fireplace_. What kind of fool would give him a fireplace? That must have been an oversight on Hannibal's part…

_Clipped wings_. Here lie the consequences, he thought miserably. He wasn't allowed to do any flying, in fact. Fillmore had been specific that, what with his unsteady stomach and 'general wobbliness', it was best he not be allowed at the yoke of a chopper or the controls of a plane. Two weeks, which would include Christmas and New Years', of sitting around feeling useless and living in a house he had no use for. Getting up, he wandered listlessly around, peering into the rooms and wincing at their emptiness and knowing he had nothing to put in them. Some dishes, pots and pans for the enormous tiled kitchen (real marble countertops, a swanky new oven, deep-freeze 'fridge, dishwasher, and a huge pantry, of all things), and he supposed he would get a mattress for the master bedroom…but what would be the point? He could sleep on the floor in the living room.

He really needed to talk to Hannibal about this. He'd rather live in a tent.

* * *

It was almost lunchtime by the time Murdock got to the airfield. He watched a Black Hawk land, shaking his head at how unsteady the kid at the yoke was, and walked around a little, taking in the air and the atmosphere. A group of grunts were sitting in a Jeep, listening to Johnny Cash walk the line, and a couple of them grinned and saluted him sharply.

"Heya, Captain," one of them, Ridgley, said as he climbed out of the Jeep. "We heard you was sick. Doin' any better?"

"Oh, a little," Murdock nodded. "Up and walkin', anyway."

"Hey, that's good, man. Real good." Ridgley had taken his first bit of real-life training with Murdock, the captain seated in the co-pilot's seat of a Black Hawk, growling at him over the mike if he was just one degree off. "We're doin' some stuff in town…a toy drive for local kids, and doin' some Christmas runs….that kinda thing. Wanna come along?"

"Eh…I'll pass," he shook his head. "I'm not up for paintin' the town red just yet."

He stayed on the tarmac a few minutes, chatting with the kids and answering their questions about how things were out in the Middle East, where so many of them were headed. Murdock was fairly well-regarded by the pilots on base. The brass, however, were either uncertain about or downright terrified of him. Considering he had no qualms whatsoever about barrel-rolling a general if he ticked him off, he supposed they had good reason for being leery of him, but Murdock was still unfailingly polite to everybody on base, no matter who they were. He was also an excellent teacher – he didn't stand in front of a chalkboard in the hangars, blithering about 'flight theory' (a ridiculous topic, since one either flew or one didn't – there was no _theory_ behind it, as far as he was concerned). He instead would sit in the co-pilot's seat and give newbies pointers, barking at them when they messed up, and praising them when they did it right. He wasn't officially an instructor, but the brass didn't mind 'that crazy pilot' teaching the babies how to _not_ get themselves killed.

The kids drove away, Johnny advising them to get rhythm, and Murdock headed on to the hangars, shoulders hunched against the relentless wind. He rather doubted Fillmore would be too pleased to learn he was walking around in this weather, so he headed indoors, picking a hangar filled to the brim with planes of various sizes and terror-inducing power. Worn out from the exertion, he sat down in the nearest chair and stretched out, shivering in the cold and wondering if Face had a fire going yet. If so, he was going to drink some whiskey and find his Hank Williams Jr. CDs, to irritate B.A. Maybe they'd sing a few Christmas carols, too.

He heard banging and frustrated, Southern-accented mumbling, and stood up, the world spinning a little, and after regaining his bearings he walked over to the source of the noise. Sure enough, Sgt. Buchanan was banging away at one of the front wheels of an F-22 Raptor, trying to get it to come loose.

"Ever flown on of these bastards?" he asked her.

She turned and looked at him, flushed and stood up straight, saluting quickly. He shook his head, not accustomed to being treated like an officer.

"No, sir," she answered. "Have you?"

"Yup. Did some testing." He walked over to the plane and examined the recalcitrant wheel. "Lug nut ain't comin' loose, huh?"

"No," she answered grumpily. "I even used the damn' riveter…nothin'. It won't budge."

"Let me try." Murdock snatched up her tools and began digging around until he found the right wrench, then got to work prying the damned nut off. It took some huffing and muttering in Spanish, but it finally came loose and he spun it off, whistling triumphantly. "You loosened it for me, no doubt." He handed the nut to her, and the wrench, and she took them from him, carefully avoiding any sort of physical contact. "Max speed?" he grinned at her.

"Two an' a quarter mach," she answered, pulling the wheel off. She rolled it away and began searching for an appropriate replacement. "Almost two at supercruise."

"Very good. Did your studyin', I see."

"Yeah, but what's the use? I'm not allowed to fly combat. Not even interception…or bombing. Just transport an' evac flights. My CO is even makin' noises about me flyin' MEDIVAC."

"Nothin' to be ashamed of, in that," he told her. "You'd be doin' a righteous service. Pullin' wounded kids out of hell ain't nothin' to sneeze at."

"It's not fair, though!" she said, turning back to look at him. "God gave me indoor plumbing, so I'm not allowed to do combat. What a crock."

He shook his head. "You don't wanna do combat, baby. Believe me." She gave him a level stare, and he looked away, at the frightful machine she was working on. "Why'd'ya think I went loony, huh? I've got PTSD and a whole gamut of other stuff, 'cause of combat. I've even done some ground combat, and I've been shot down a few times, too. Believe me – you want to avoid it. What is your first name?"

Buchanan reeled, unprepared for his sudden change of topic. "Seab-…I…none of your business."

"Seab…Seab…hm…lemme think. Aha! _Seaborn_. What's wrong with Seaborn? Sounds kinda cool."

"I didn't say my name was Seaborn," she snapped.

"But it is, right?" Off her exasperated roll of the eyes, he grinned. "Mine's James, by the way. Not Howling Mad. Mamas these days are right cruel, in my opinion, in the names they're giving their kids. They're tryin' to be cute or original or whatever, givin' their kids names nobody can spell or pronounce. Gives the kid a complex. I was just plain ol' _James_. My mother named me after the Apostle James, by the way. The brother of Jesus. Hard to live up to that one. James Matthew Murdock. Kinda bland, really, all things considered."

"Anybody ever call you Jim?" she asked.

"Only once. My father called me Jamie sometimes, but that never stuck. So they named you Seaborn? 'Cause you were born on the sea?"

"_Duh_," she said, sighing in resignation. "But don't you dare tell anybody! People always seem to think it's funny. I've only ever seen the name one other time, in some book by Louis L'Amour."

"It ain't funny. It's appropriate. What's 'A' stand for, then?"

"Just…'A'…" she mumbled. She pulled her cap off and wiped her brow. Inside the hangar, it was remarkably hot in spite of the bitter cold outside. She had pulled off her warm coat long ago, and was down to a distractingly tight T-shirt, fatigues and boots.

"Well…let's see…" He pondered, thinking carefully. "You were born on the sea, and named Seaborn…and Aphrod-…your middle name is Aphrodite, isn't it?"

"Shut up," she mumbled out of the corner of her mouth.

"Seaborn Aphrodite . Now that's cool. It'd be a good name for a racehorse, too, but it suits ya."

"So I remind you of a _horse_?" she asked, turning to face him, eyes snapping with anger.

"That's not an insult, you know," he told her gravely. "Racehorses are the Maserati's of the animal world, and braver'n hell, all fire and heart and willin' to kill themselves to win. I seen a few finish on three legs." He shrugged. "That shouldn't be taken too far, though, when it comes to people. Pilots in particular. Not that that's advice I apply to myself, being crazy'n all, but I give the advise to others, and for free."

She glared at him, then went back to work on putting the new wheel on the plane. Murdock went around to help her out, and while he suspected she would have spat nails at anybody else for trying, she held her tongue and let him assist her. She was so small – in fact, to him, she looked as delicate as a hummingbird – that he was amazed at her strength and determination. She had little trouble lifting the wheel up and banging it into place, and she used the riveter to drive the lugnuts into place.

"Ever flown an Osprey?" he asked her at last, once she was finished and was satisfied that the wheel was on tight, above and beyond standard.

"Only in a simulator."

"Well, then, come on," he told her, and gestured for her to follow him. They trotted out onto the freezing tarmac, and Murdock looked around for a moment, remembering where the chopper was being kept. "A loaner," he told her, as he took off toward the hangar. "Air Force is lettin' us play with her for a few days. I haven't been up in one in a while, so I need to practice a bit."

"Wait a minute…haven't you had your wings clipped?"

He stopped and eyed her coldly, then shrugged. "Yep. That's why you're gonna be flyin' her."

* * *

"Okay, now, relax your grip, and bank to the left. Which way's west?"

She gestured toward the sun, and he nodded.

"Good. Tip from the sun, and keep the glare out of your eyes."

"I know that!" she said, exasperated.

"So why're you tilted toward the sun and nearly friggin' blindin' me?" he snapped back.

Chastised, Buchanan righted her position and moved eastward, putting the sun behind her. For a few minutes, he let her climb, only calling down to the tower to inform them that he was 'training a newbie' and to please not shoot them out of the sky. "Hey, I got sixty bucks in the bank right now, and I doubt this kid's got much more, considering Army rate of pay, but this thing's worth, what, twenty mill'? So just relax. Kind of an impromptu session today, an' we'll be back to earth in a few minutes."

The tower crackled, and Murdock was gratified when he heard Major Ayres, a good friend, answer back. "All right. But you're foldin' her up when you're done, and by the way, I need to talk to you later."

"Aye, aye," Murdock answered cheerfully. "Okay. Ease up a bit - we're gonna do an emergency landing sim'. That's what she's here for, anyhow."

"Jesus…" she whispered. "I mean…seriously…Jesus help me…"

"Steady as she goes, and Jesus won't need to help you with anything but your everlastin' soul. Don't get all panicky. All aircraft's pretty much the same, which you turn 'em over and open their diapers. Climb up, nice and steady, and settle in level. How's speed?"

"Good, sir," she answered, her voice steady. He grinned, knowing she was focused. During the preflight, she had gone over everything on the list _twice_, and had easily familiarized herself with the cockpit. She had good muscle memory, too, which pleased him, and natural instincts. She was, in fact, simply a _natural_. Far better than the kids he'd been training lately. She needed a lot more polish, but all the mettle was there in spades.

He gave her steady instructions at first, but didn't touch the controls at his side. He let her take over completely, and was pleased when she eased down, letting the tiltrotor move back toward the tarmac, not wobbling even a bit even as he started yelling at her, doing an excellent live simulation of an Oh-God-please-help-us-now emergency landing, switching on every emergency light he could find and letting everything blare and ring and buzz at her and howling in feigned terror the whole time. He didn't even have to tell her to get level – she was doing it perfectly well on her own. In a few moments, the Osprey was back on the ground, rotors slowing, and Sgt. Buchanan's face was flushed with excitement and obvious pleasure, not shaken a bit by all his shouting and the screaming alarms. He began switching them all off, snickering as somebody in the control tower starting yelling at him. "Shaddup, willya? 's all right." He turned off her line to the tower and sat back, grinning.

"I flew an Osprey," she whispered. "Oh my God…I flew an _Osprey_."

"Yep. Sure did, and ya did a fine job, too." He took off his helmet. "C'mon, how d'ya like your tea? Black or white?"

* * *

Hannibal was starting to get a little desperate. He and two of his team members would be leaving Bragg in three days, and he still didn't have a pilot – none of the guys who had come to him hoping for the job had been up to snuff. He bundled up, pulled on a pair of thick gloves, stamped his feet, shouted a few times to give himself some courage, and went out into the vicious, mean-spirited North Carolina cold, muttering about 'warm Southern hospitality' as he galloped along toward the hangars and Ayers' office. He knew the Major quite well, and was already aware than the officer and Murdock were good friends, so he knew he could trust the guy to dig up a capable guy for him for this mission.

Ayers, a slight, handsome, grey-haired man in his early forties, greeted Hannibal inside a hangar containing that monstrous Osprey on loan from the Air Force, and led him over to a makeshift desk and chairs. After exchanging pleasantries and doling out a cup of scalding coffee, he invited the Colonel to sit down. "So what's up?"

"I need a good chopper pilot. Somebody steady."

Ayres snickered and pulled out a file from his desk drawer. He had been expecting a visit from Smith, and had already compiled a list of potential men for the mission. Ayres was fully aware of Murdock's 'issues', but also knew the pilot was the best there had ever been and he had gone over the list with him last evening, over a bottle of whiskey and an argument over the UT defensive line. Murdock had frowned at each one of Ayers' suggestions, and had only seemed vaguely less disgusted with Chambers, a native of Ottumwa, Nebraska, whom he called 'fairly good at the stick, even if he is a damnyankee'.

"Well, there's Lieutenant Chambers, and Seward, and Farquar…" Ayres scratched the back of his neck. "What's funny is that, yesterday, Murdock took a kid up in that Osprey over there, and let him take the stick on his own. Kid was pretty good – very steady. Not even a wobble, and Murdock made him do an emergency landing sim', screamin' and turning on all the alarms. Kid landed spot-on, steady as a rock."

"Hm. Who was it?"

Ayres shrugged. "Beats me. Some baby, he said. I'll talk to H.M. about it, see what he thinks. He's trained most of the kids around here, for the past few months, and let me tell you, when he says they're good, you can bet they're_ good_."

"Meanwhile?" Hannibal leaned forward, exasperated. He needed a pilot as soon as possible – he would need to go over the mission plan with him, and make sure he jelled with B.A. and Face before would sign off on him.

"We'll see. Why don't you get H.M. to go up with the three guys I've mentioned and see what he thinks? If anybody's going to tell you who can handle a mission like this, it'll be the captain."

Hannibal agreed to this, shook hands with Ayres, put his gloves back on, stomped his feet a few times and forced himself back out into the bitter cold, the wind blowing twice as hard by the hangars. He had once had a cigar blow right out of his mouth while yelling at a corporal, on a fairly warm fall day, and Murdock had had to go hide behind a Chinook to laugh about it.

He started running, and made it back to his quarters in double time. He found his messages, saw that his sister had called, and sighed. He had promised that he'd be coming home after Christmas, if all went well, but would have to be back at Bragg before the New Year.

B.A. and Face trailed in, both looking rather gloomy, and it wasn't hard for the Colonel to guess why. Even B.A. found it hard to go off on a mission without the whole team taking part. He complained all the time about 'that crazy fool', but they were all brothers, and to leave Murdock behind was anathema to them all. Still, they had a job to do, and Hannibal handed them the mission specs and sat back in his chair, lighting another cigar.

"Boys, go over those specs until you know them like the Lord's Prayer," Hannibal told them.

"Right," Face muttered, looking no less cheerful.

"Good. Once you've memorized it, _say_ the Lord's Prayer."


	4. Black Lambs

**Just suspend reality a bit here, 'kay? I also doubt women are allowed to take part in stuff like this, and I looked around, but found nothing definitive. Besides, it's the A-Team! It's fiction. Moving on, doggies...**

* * *

"So I take it you're in the culinary corps?" Murdock asked in a strained voice, undoing his seatbelt and tearing his helmet off.

"Uh…n-n-no, sir," Farquar said, finally prying his fingers off the yoke and braving a glance at the captain. "I-I'm a p-pilot…"

"Oh, well, I would never have known that, considering you were flyin' this thing as though you expected to use it _to beat cornbread mix in a bowl_!" He threw the helmet to the kid and scrambled out of the chopper, considered dropping to his knees to kiss the cold tarmac but decided against it, and stalked toward the control tower.

Hannibal and Ayres were both up there, and they had listened to Murdock shout at all three of his potential replacements, and all three had come to grief under the pressure he had applied to them. Not even Chambers had passed the test, having scrambled out of the chopper as soon as it landed and running for his life back to the hangar, determined to get away from the enraged Captain.

Murdock climbed up the steps the tower, banged the door open and was almost knocked over by cigar smoke and unbearable heat – the Major and the Colonel had turned the heaters on in there that one could fully roast a cow just by walking it through. Murdock glared at them both. "None of those boys can fly worth sh-…crap." He ran an agitated hand through his hair.

"They're all excellent, high-graded pilots, Captain," Ayers pointed out. "You seemed determined to scare them all…to death!"

"Yeah, an' they oughta be scared, too," Murdock grouched back. "Think it's gonna strawberries an' cream down there in Nicaragua? Mai-tais by the pool and tropical breezes? No, sir. I been down there. Those folks shoot to kill, and are crazy enough to start askin' you questions when you're already dead. No sir, I ain't lettin' those kids fly _my_ team down there. No way in hell."

Hannibal had to agree. Murdock regularly succumbed to pressure, pain and fear on the ground. But in the air, he was as cool and collected as could be. A pilot for his team needed to be on the same level, and he knew Murdock was the best judge of any other aviator's abilities. Still, this was getting frustrating. He needed a pilot _yesterday_. They were leaving tomorrow night, for God's sake, and as much as he deferred to Murdock on matters of air travel, he still felt like strangling the pilot now.

"So…" Ayers sighed and crossed his arms. "Do you know of anyone else who can meet your standards, H.M.?"

Murdock pondered for a moment, and Hannibal watched the younger man as he appeared to debate something with himself before finally nodding and smiling brightly. "Yeah! Actually, I do, by cracky! Gimme ten minutes and I'll have h-…him ready for a demonstration. Ten minutes!" He zipped up his coat, pulled his cap back on and went back out into the cold wind, taking the steps two at a time before he ran toward the hangar.

"You don't think he's planning on tricking us, do you?" Ayers wondered. "He might pretend to be the pilot in question and…"

"He wouldn't disobey a direct order," Hannibal said, frowning and knowing Murdock would do just that, if the situation called for it. He hadn't kicked against the goads too much, though, when informed of his grounding, and Smith had to wonder just what Murdock had up his sleeve. At this point, however, he was willing to go on a little faith and trust his pilot's advise.

* * *

"What? Are you _crazy_?"

Buchanan stared at Murdock in astonishment, and he burst into laughter, holding his hand out to her.

"Hi, I don't believe we've met. Name's H.M. Murdock." She started to reach out to shake his hand, but stopped in time and just stared down at his hand before looking away, flushing and snatching up a wrench. "Listen, put on a flight suit and…uh…get some tape or somethin' to…uh…put around your…uh…_evidence_…and meet me on the tarmac in ten." He pretended the awkward moment hadn't happened, and ran a hand through his hair instead.

"But I'm not allowed to do flights like that. It's not just covert, it's considered combat, and…"

"Just put on the damn' flight suit, Sergeant. That's an order. Git!" He turned her around and shoved her toward what he knew were the inadequate locker rooms of the hangar. "Hurry it up!"

"But I…"

"Listen, do you want to fly combat or not? This isn't too bad a mission, in my opinion. A little dangerous, yes, but you can handle it. You'll be flyin' a Huey, which is your specialty, and it's armed. So you can do defense if necessary…dammit, would you just _go_ already? I'll be waitin' in the co-pilot's seat. Don't let 'em know you're a girl. Don't _say_ anything, either! Not one word, while you're in the chopper. Hurry!" With that, he turned and dashed out the door, galloping back across the tarmac to the waiting Huey.

Buchanan leaned against the wall for a moment, thinking of the potential disaster, but cast that aside. If Captain Murdock thought she could do this, then maybe she really could. She grabbed an orange flight suit and took off for the lockers, becoming more and more excited with each step.

* * *

"So what's this kid's name?" Hannibal asked, over the comm line.

Murdock jumped the hurdle like a prize-winning three-day eventer. "Paisley…sir." He glanced at Buchanan, who was getting ready to take off.

"Paisley?" Ayers' voice came over the line. "I don't know any Paisley…"

"Sure you do. Brad Paisley. This is…uh…_Tad_ Paisley, no relation." Murdock switched off his line and glanced at Seaborn. "Listen to me," he told her, a little breathless. "Just fly this bitch and do what I tell ya, okay?"

She nodded, remembering not to speak. He switched the line back on.

"Corporal Paisley…a bit young, but he's good. Real good – I took him up in the Osprey yesterday, sir," Murdock said.

Hannibal, holding the line up to his ear and wincing from the headache that was just starting to hit, wondered why Murdock's line kept shutting off and why Paisley's wasn't on at all. But before he could ask anybody about it, the chopper lifted off, smooth and graceful, from the ground.

"There's a thing of beauty," Ayers said, shaking his head. "Perfect. Wind's blowin' hard, and that kid didn't even wobble. H.M., you say this kid flew the Osprey yesterday?" he said through the comm.

"Yeppers," Murdock answered. "Show 'em what you can do, kiddo."

"And afterward, I'm sure Corporal Paisley can tell us all about himself," Hannibal said. "He'll have to go over the specs…"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely right, boy-o." Murdock gave her a thumbs-up and Seaborn put the chopper through its paces, easily impressing Ayers and Hannibal as Murdock had her send the Huey up, doing basic and then more complex maneuvers, with Murdock not touching anything on the panel and barely saying a word. She sat it back down smoothly, without even bouncing, and he punched her on the shoulder. "Excellent, kid. _Muy excelente_. See what I mean, Hannibal? Good as me…well, _almost_ as good." He knew that if she hadn't been concentrating on the yoke, she would have kicked him. "Kid'll do just fine!"

Ayers shrugged and looked at Smith. "Well, Murdock didn't yell at him, even once. I'd say we okay him."

"Fine with me. Send him to my quarters." Hannibal put down the mike and grabbed his coat, eager for some good Irish coffee and a resolution to this unpleasant predicament. The herd of tiny, enraged elk in his head were stomping even harder now, and that was making his right eye twitch, and as much as he loved cigars, even the smoke was starting to get to him. He felt dizzy and vaguely sick to his stomach. Kind of like how he felt after eating at the officer's mess.

"All right, Captain. Paisley's okay'd for this mission…and his blood's on your hands."

Murdock paused, looking at Seaborn, who had pulled her helmet off. She gave him a nervous look, and she saw the disquiet on his face before he gave her a grin. "Come on, kid. Let's go talk to Hannibal."

* * *

Hannibal had B.A. and Face seated in his quarters, and they were both bickering more than usual. Murdock hadn't been around for the past two days, and it seemed strange that without his presence – which was never what any person could call 'calming' – they fought a lot. The two men were finally ordered to sit down and for God's sake shut up, and they waited. Finally, after several minutes, the door clattered open and Murdock came stumbling in, with a guy in a flight suit behind him. Weird, but the guy still had his helmet on. When Paisley saw Hannibal, he saluted, but had forgotten about the helmet and banged his hand against the visor.

"Take that damn' thing off, will ya, _Paisley_?" Murdock said amiably, and finally, Paisley removed the helmet, and Face, B.A. and Hannibal stared in amazement.

"What the hell…" Face said, standing up.

"Hell no," B.A. shook his head. "No. No way."

"What is the meaning of this, Captain?" Hannibal shouted, and felt like his head had just exploded. He opened his eyes and expected to see bits of brain all over his desk. No. Just tons of paperwork and a letter from _Publisher's Clearinghouse_, telling he had just won twenty million dollars. Grumbling angrily, dropping his unlit cigar, he threw the letter into the trash and glared at Murdock. Or hoped was glaring. For all knew, he was blinking and grinning like a goober, his head was hurting so bad.

"You said he was okay'd," Murdock said firmly. "You said anybody I cleared would be okay for you, and so…I've okay'd…her." He gestured to Seaborn. "S.A. Buchanan, at your service. So…okay, I love you, bye-bye!" He tipped his cap to them, shoved it back on his head and was out the door before Hannibal could even start to yell.

Buchanan eyed them all nervously, Hannibal fuming, B.A. shaking his head, and Face studying her, wide-eyed. Finally, the lieutenant sat down, running a hand through his hair. "Wow."

"Are you telling me," Hannibal said slowly, containing his fury as well as he could, "That you were in on this…blatant deception?"

"I…yes, sir." Buchanan clutched her helmet in her hands, waiting to use it as a weapon if necessary, but the three men continued to stare at her so intently that she had to fight an urge to check to see if anything was crawling out of her ears. "Captain Murdock insisted I…show what I could do, and…"

"And not say a word through the whole demonstration," Hannibal said, shaking his head. "And you say you're a conman, Face. All right…all right, so you honestly think your CO will allow this? Women don't take part in combat situa-…"

"But it's not technically combat, and it's covert, too," she said, interrupting him with the words Murdock had given her on the way to the Colonel's quarters. Hannibal's eyebrows rose, and Face and B.A. both smirked, ready for their CO to start yelling now. "So if anything happens, the Army'd have to disallow any knowledge of the action, right? My CO doesn't really…_have_ to know, does he?"

"Of course he does!" Face said, exasperated, rising to his feet and heading for the door. "I'll go find Murdock…Jesus, he must be off his meds or something…for God's sake…this is crazy, even for him…"

"Wait," Hannibal said, raising his hand and shooing Face back to his seat. "You did some very good flying out there, Sergeant, and your flight record is good... You do transport and evac, right?"

"Yes, sir," she answered carefully.

Hannibal sat back in his chair, pondering this little turn of events. Murdock's actions would get him a sharp reprimand, but he _had_ okay'd this 'Paisley' person for the mission, and Murdock had given 'him' high marks. He studied the small, belligerent pilot silently, thinking this over. Finally, he reached into his desk drawer and extracted some papers. He handed them to Buchanan. "Here are the mission specs. Read them over." He gave B.A. and Face hard looks, and they could only stare at him, stunned.

"So…I'm going?" she asked cautiously.

"Lieutenant, go get Captain Murdock for me. B.A., you're dismissed. Sergeant, sit down. We have a few things to talk about."

* * *

Murdock let Face frog march him back to Hannibal's quarters, and he was ready for a fight with his CO. Hell, he was looking forward to it – he hadn't felt this good in days, and was rarin' for some scarin'. From the XO's expression, a fight was definitely in the offing, but he was prepared to lay it on the line for Seaborn. She was a good pilot – she had proven that to him in the Osprey, and she had been even better in the Huey. In his opinion, she could handle a mission to Nicaragua, even when it was against some rather violent arms-dealers. Who had ties to the Taliban. And liked to hurt women and children. And didn't bathe very often, from what he'd heard. He swallowed nervously, allowing unsettling notions to cut down his previous confidence, but went into Hannibal's quarters with his back straight and his head high just the same.

She was seated across from Hannibal, holding the mission specs in her hands and reading them over carefully. She glanced up at him and her cheeks turned pink. Murdock squared his shoulders and started to speak, but Hannibal cut him off.

"You can tell her how we do things," Hannibal told him sharply. "When you're finished, you can come apologize to me for this little…I can't think of the word, as I think my brain is melting. In the meantime, I'm going to go take a hot shower, and some aspirin, and rethink my life." He stood, glared at them both, and left. Hannibal was, frankly, too tired to yell. He'd yell tomorrow, or maybe next week, if his headache was finally gone by then.

Flabbergasted, Murdock sat down and waited. Finally, Seaborn handed the specs to him. "It looks…kinda rough."

"It is. You'll be okay. Just follow your instincts and ever'thing'll be peachy keen." He scanned the mission notes, having already memorized them days ago, and handed them back to her. "Just do what Hannibal tells you, keep your eyes open for trouble and let B.A. beat the shit out of anybody that looks at you wrong."

She looked down at the papers again, then at him. "Are you sure…about this?"

"I'm positive, baby. Hannibal's big into bein' unconventional, and stirrin' the pot, and what better way to do that than throwin' a girl into a mission? Not just any girl, of course." He frowned, seeming to mull that over again, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Anyway…you'll be back here two days 'fore Christmas, I promise. I'll…I'll roast you a turkey and some cornbread dressing and buy some of that canned cranberry sauce…you know, the stuff that goes 'shhtoop' when you tap it out of the can?" Off her nod and barely suppressed smile, he continued. "Exactly. I'll make you a right good Christmas supper and we'll…I dunno…play poker or something and drink lotsa whiskey and forget Christmas even happened. How's that sound?"

"Why are you doing this? You said I didn't want to see combat…"

"You don't. This'll cure you of it, for sure."

* * *

Murdock trotted out to the tarmac to say goodbye to his team and Sergeant Buchanan. He received a smothering hug from Face, who roughed his hair and commanded him to get some rest; a firm handshake and shoulder punch came from Hannibal, who still looked like hell, and finally a mumbled goodbye and knuckle-punch from B.A., who looked like he _might_ hug Murdock for a second there, but didn't and instead walked up the ramp into the Herc, no arguing. Murdock turned to Buchanan, who was wearing her usual fatigues and cap. He held his hand out to her, and had it not been for the icy wind blowing on her, Face would have sworn she was blushing to the roots. She didn't take his hand, awkwardly turning away and grabbing her bag before giving him a curt nod and said something that sounded like goodbye, but the incessant wind tore it away. Murdock finally looked down, nodding quickly. "Well…good luck. Not that you need it – y'all'll be back _sain et seuf_, I know it."

They were riding in a Herc to Florida and then in a little puddle jumper to Nicaragua, where the Huey would be waiting for them aboard a ship called – unsettlingly – the _Rust Bucket_. Hannibal saluted the captain and followed Buchanan into the Herc. The ramp went up slowly, and he stepped away, moving off the tarmac as the Herc's engines started up and it began to move slowly, majestically, toward the lane.

He went into the hangar, watching a group of men working on a damaged fighter jet, and sat down, breathless and chilled to the bone. He closed his eyes, said a prayer for their safety, and after a few minutes of warming up and thinking about turkey, he got up and went off to find a Jeep to drive to his still-empty house. He was having a bedstead and mattress delivered today, and a brand-new TV. Might as well get home and see if he could find _Animaniacs_.

* * *

Face was watching the Hellcat, intrigued. She was fumbling nervously with the strap on her bag, squeezing its edges together and occasionally licking her lips. He took in her fine features, and that nice little nose and wondered what she would look like with her hair down, out of those braids. Of course, he also wondered what she'd look like out of her clothes. Probably pretty damned good, he decided. Hannibal couldn't snarl at him for _thinking_ she was hot, anyway.

"Why'ncha say g'bye to Murdock?" he asked her at last.

She looked up at him, and finally shrugged before looking down again, her cheeks pinking.

"He got you in on this mission, and you can't even say g'bye?" Face shook his head. "He's my best friend, y'know. Wasn't at first – when I first met him, he set my arm on fire and then did a barrel-roll and turned B.A. against flyin' for good, but ever since then, he's like…you know…my brother. My older, slightly unstable, I'd-put-my-life-in-his-hands brother." Face shrugged. "I hate leavin' him back there, and if I had some place for him to stay, I'd take him with me to Ohio, but…I don't, and he hates staying at hotels. You're stayin' at Bragg, right, for Christmas?"

She nodded.

"Maybe you'll keep him company, huh?" Face grinned, winking at her.

"I…wouldn't that be inappropriate?" she snapped, her cheeks turning even pinker, and not from the cold. "He outranks me. He's an _officer_ and…and…just shut up, asshole."

Face burst into laughter. "You know, you could try for a little more…I dunno…femininity. There's nothing wrong with being a girl, y'know."

"Yes, and I'm sure you've convinced many girls of that fact," she responded, rolling her eyes. "I don't want to talk about that. I…I'm gonna take a nap."

"In this racket?" he asked.

They had actually been shouting, because the inside of a Herc wasn't exactly conducive to conversation. It was louder than a Final Four basketball game, in fact, and Face was tiring of all the yelling required to be heard. B.A., having been give a sedative, was sound asleep. Hannibal, nursing a headache that could have killed a Clydesdale, had curled up on a bag of somebody's laundry and had fallen into a stupor. He sighed, giving up, and settled in for the flight.

Buchanan settled back in her makeshift seat, stretching her legs out. Face glanced at them, knowing instinctively that they were gorgeous under those fatigues, and set his mind on cruise control, finally drifting into a fitful sleep. This mission had to go smoothly, and one thing that would help would be some pre-chaos rest.

* * *

"They're back?" Murdock sat up, startled out of a deep sleep, and Fillmore nodded. He had finally bullied the pilot into taking a bed at the hospital, seeing as how he had clearly been missing sleep for the past two days and was dragging, his illness still not completely beaten off. The absence of his team had also left the captain agitated, nervous and combative, to the point where he had nearly gotten into a fistfight at the PX. Ayers and another officer had dragged Murdock away and Fillmore had made the captain lie down. A quick-acting sedative had done the trick after that, and he had slept through the night, barely even moving.

"Yep. Landed ten minutes ago," Fillmore told him. Murdock was already on his feet, starting toward the door. "You might want to change out of that hospital gown. It's as cold as Hillary Clinton's heart out there."

Murdock threw the gown off, and was relieved to still be in his jeans. He raced back up to the bed, fumbled around for his shirt, and pulled it on. "Where's my coat, dammit?"

Fillmore rolled his eyes and handed it to him, and Murdock pulled it on posthaste. He searched his pockets, found his cap, pulled it on and was running out the door before Fillmore could tell him to try and stay calm when he saw Buchanan. "It was just a…a little _shrapnel_, really…"

The weather was as bitterly cold as ever, perhaps even more so, but Murdock barely noticed. He was watching the Herc taxi in, finally slowing to a stop and making its cumbrous way back. He debated going up to the tower to call in and see how everybody was doing, but finally decided against it. As soon as the plane was still, and the engines winding down, he trotted over. A couple of ground crew guys waved at him, but he outranked them both and pulled it on them shamelessly. "Headin' in," he told them. "Got some friends in there."

"Oh, right," one of the guys nodded. "Hey, look, the ambulance is comin'…" He gestured toward the ambulance screaming up the tarmac toward them, and Murdock's eyes widened with horror.

"Who…what happened?"

"One of 'em got shot..."

"Who? Which one of them?" Murdock grabbed the crewman, but the kid shook his head.

"I dunno."

Murdock resisted an urge to punch the guy in the face. It wasn't as though it was his fault he didn't have all the information. He began bouncing on his feet, all sorts of horrible scenarios running through his mind. Face all torn to bits. B.A. blown to smithereens. Hannibal riddled with holes. _Seaborn bleeding and dying, before he'd even had a chance_… He took a deep breath and tried some breathing exercises, but they didn't help much, unless hyperventilating could be considered 'helpful'.

Finally, the Herc's back hatch was opened and a tank came rumbling out. Murdock shoved aside two servicemen and dodged around a Humvee, rushing inside and heading toward the seats. The EMTs came racing up, pushing a gurney, and Murdock almost passed out when he saw Face and Hannibal propping Seaborn up, with B.A. trailing behind them. She was holding her left foot up, hopping along between them and looking only slightly put out. The two medics ignored her protests that she was fine and insisted she get on the gurney.

Face greeted Murdock with a wide grin, and Hannibal clapped him on the shoulder, B.A. giving him a clap on the back that made him wheeze. "Everything went smoothly…well…until that bullet ricocheted off the rotor and hit Buchanan in the back of her leg. She wouldn't let us take her to the hospital in Miami, but we outwitted her this time. She's gonna be fine, Captain. Take a deep breath – you look like you might faint."

"I'm the one who might _faint_," Buchanan growled from the gurney. "Get your hands off me!" she snapped at one of the EMTs, who ignored her and tore her pants leg open from the bottom and began examining the seeping wound on the back of her leg, right above her ankle. When the other EMT began poking at the wound, to clean it so they could assess the damage better, she yelled with pain and punched him, knocking him onto the tarmac. The other EMT looked at his colleague, then at her, before bravely moving back to her side and looking at the wound. "Bullet went clean through. Probably missed the bone entirely."

"Sorry…" she finally said, looking guilty. "It just…hurt."

Murdock approached the gurney cautiously, but didn't touch her. "You sure you're okay?" he asked her.

"Well…I have a hole in my leg, and it hurts like hell, but I'll recover."

"Good…good…" He nodded and stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Face watched this exchange, intrigued, and gave Buchanan's shoulder a friendly squeeze.

"Hey, you came through like a trooper, kid. Great job!"

Hannibal, looking a lot less plagued by headaches, put his hands on his hips and studied Murdock before shaking his head. "She was very steady. She kept her cool even after taking that bullet, and flew us right out to the ship and could have landed on a dime if asked. Didn't even wobble. Didn't even _cry_, in fact. Hell, I would have. Flesh wounds hurt worse than the really serious ones."

The other three men nodded in agreement, having experienced both kinds several times over the years. Buchanan was finally persuaded to lie down on the gurney, and the EMTs put warming pads on her as they rolled her to the ambulance. Murdock stood still, watching her being loaded in, and didn't hear Hannibal yell something at him, or notice Face smacking him on the back. She was all right – that was all he saw or cared about.

* * *

"I hate Jello," Seaborn said. "Can't I have steak or something? Forget I asked…it's probably made from horse. _Filet au filly_."

The nurse rolled her eyes and put the bowl of Jello down. She had been attempting to feed the combative pilot all morning, to no avail, and this was the last straw.

"Tough girls don't eat Jello."

Seaborn looked up and saw Captain Murdock standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking uneasy. The nurse gave him a hard glare, and he gave her a charming grin. "Tough girls eat…nurses."

The nurse gave an exasperated sigh and finally left the room. Murdock startled Seaborn by suddenly presenting her with a small vase of daisies, his eyes never leaving her face, or in particular her hair, which was down around her shoulders, still damp from the shower she had been allowed to take – assisted by the same nurse that been trying to feed her. The thick, dark-red tresses were curling as they dried, which embarrassed her immensely.

"Got these in the gift shop downstairs – had six dollars on me, so now I've got to eat at home tonight. Or maybe you'd let me have your Jello?" He eyed the wiggling red globs warily, and handed Seaborn the vase, but he was shaking just a little, which she found odd.

"Well…tough girls don't eat it, but maybe you can." She awkwardly handed him the bowl and he picked up a piece, popping the jiggling red blob into his mouth.

"Ooo…yumsies. You're gettin' out tomorrow, right? Eve of Christmas Eve."

"Yes," she nodded. "I bitched and griped and belly-ached and hollered enough that they're letting me out early…finally, I can have some peace!"

"Good. Good…like I said, you can have Christmas dinner at…I mean, with…at my house. I have a big ol' house, for some reason. I told Hannibal it's too big, but he gave me some speech about how I deserved officer's quarters and to shut up, 'cause he's still got that headache."

"They're all going home, right?" she asked him quietly, knowing how it felt to be alone on the holidays.

"Right."

"So I guess you don't have a family, either?" Seaborn rubbed a daisy petal between her fingers and finally let herself smell the cheerful little flowers. She had always loved daises, and their sweet, uncomplicated scent. As a child, she had made daisy chains while fishing, much to her father's consternation. But then, he had raised her to be a boy, and had been even more appalled when she'd gotten her first period and he had had to go into town to buy her certain 'products'. As if it hadn't been embarrassing enough for her…that whole ordeal had been horrible. The changes in her body and her emotions had been bewildering, particularly with no one around who could explain it all and understand, and had only gotten worse for her after father died.

"Uh…well…" He sat down in the chair by her bed and watched her futz around with the daisies until she finally put the vase on the table beside her. "I have…um…relatives. Sort of. Back home."

"Sort of your relatives?" she asked, intrigued. "Either they're your relatives or they're not."

"Well, then, they're not. Biologically, they are…distantly. Guy that raised me was my stepfather, see. He…er…married my mother, not long after I was born and then after she died, he married again and had five kids of his own, but raised me as though I was his own son."

Seaborn stared at him, stunned, and finally nodded. She grabbed a piece of Jello and ate it, in lieu of knowing what to do with her hands. "A-aren't you close to him?"

"I guess I am. I like to think I am, but after I joined the Army it got harder for us to connect, y'know? He's sort of a…businessman. Builds houses. I mean. Pretty successful, in Dallas. His sons work for him. I was never interested in that stuff, and…so that was another thing that didn't exactly pull us together." He shrugged, gesturing with his hands.

"So you grew up rich?" Seaborn asked him, an eyebrow lifting.

"Filthy rich. Don't tell anybody, though. Only Hannibal knows about the whole thing. I don't really…talk about it. Tell folks you got cash, or grew up rich, and they either hit you up for it or they hate you. And considering it was him that was rich, not me, it hardly matters…but still…" He shrugged again.

"You said your mother was pullin' cotton when you were born…"

"She was. On his farm, up close to Dallas. It was kind of a Ruth an' Boaz type thing, really. My biological father was the guy's…um…cousin, I think, and…or something like that…and so Jack kind of knew of her, and when he saw her in the field and asked about her, he sorta recognized the name and made sure she was treated well, 'specially since she was pregnant and alone in the world, and after I was born, Jack started comin' around to see 'bout her and they kinda…you know…and so they got married. She had a baby girl, later, but she died, just three days old. Mama never did really get over that."

"Oh…" Seaborn didn't know what to say, and so she kept her mouth shut.

"Mama got real sick after that, and she died when I was five. So Jack got married again. He never asked me to call him Dad, anyway – he was just…Jack. So my 'brothers and sisters' aren't really related to me, except by some distant kinship through my father. He did adopt me, though, so there wouldn't be any difficulties after Mama died, but he didn't make me change my name."

"What happened to your father?" she asked him softly.

"Cut in half by some kinda farm machine." Murdock got to his feet and looked out the window at the cold street below. "And in spite of all that, I can' t say as my childhood was all that bad. Jack never left me out – I was his kid, far as he was concerned, and Marie was good to me, too, and treated me like her own kid. But…you know…I always felt like an outsider." He glanced at her, and realized he sounded kind of self-pitying and forced himself to smile. "And sure enough, I remain an oddball, a black sheep…"

"There's nothing wrong with being a black sheep," she said.

"Yeah, but black sheep live alone. Well, I did, until a coupla years ago, anyway. Things got better since then. When are you bein' released – I can come pick ya up, if ya like."

"I…uh…thanks, I guess that would be…be okay."

The door was pushed open then and Face came bustling in, carrying an enormous bouquet of red, white and pink roses and a box of candy large enough to feed a large portion of Angola. "Good grief," Murdock said, dodging out of the way just in time, avoiding getting smacked by the box of candy. Face, not able to navigate well what with having his vision blocked, knocked into the pulley line that was holding Seaborn's foot up, causing her to almost be thrown from the bed. She yowled with pain and cursed loudly. Face scrambled back, muttering apologies, and finally managed to get untangled.

"Here ya go, sweetcakes. Roses and candy!" Face placed the box of candy on the table by her bed, but it fell down and banged into her IV pole, causing it wobble and almost fall, but Murdock caught it in time. "Hey, listen," he said cheerfully, once everything was back under control and Murdock stopped looking quite so _murderous_. "I'm holdin' a New Years' party – we'll all be back on the thirtieth, and I've got everything planned. It'll be at the base, and there'll be plenty of free booze and grub, so you're coming, no arguments. Everybody'll be there – my parties, as we all know, are legendary."

"Yes, of what little people can remember of them," Murdock muttered, opening the box of candy and searching for something with orange flavor inside. He squeezed one of the chocolate candies and was pleased to see orange in there, and popped it into his mouth. He handed Seaborn a piece, but again, avoided physical contact with her, which Face noticed.

"Is it safe?" she asked dryly. Just then, B.A. came in, lugging a _huge _teddy bear, and the whole mess started again. The pulley holding her foot up was bumped by the bear's huge paw, B.A. apologized, and Hannibal entered a moment later to a scene of pandemonium. He rolled his eyes, took the bear from the mechanic, sitting it in a chair by the door, and ordered everybody out. Murdock lingered for a moment, even with Face trying to drag him away, and seemed transfixed as he stood in the doorway. She flushed and pushed her hair back, wishing she had at least a band to strap it back with. Hannibal sat down by the bed and handed her a small box.

"Purple Heart," he said, grinning at her as she cautiously opened the box. "Pulled a few strings. Told the brass you earned it, and after they finished squawking, they agreed. Congratulations, Sergeant – you did _quite_ well." He gave her shoulder a little squeeze and left her alone, staring down at the medal in amazement, her eyes blurring with tears.


	5. Charms

Thanks to Red Molly for helping with the Christmas gift!

* * *

B.A., Face, Murdock and Hannibal gathered on the tarmac, the Colonel pouring a finger of brandy for each of his men before closing the bottle and raising his glass. They followed suit, clinking the glasses together and waiting.

"May the road always rise to meet you, and may peace and happiness travel always at your side," he said, and tossed back the liquor. The others murmured and did the same, shivering in the cold wind and letting the warm liquid slide down their throats. They stuffed their hands in their pockets and stood in a little circle, not willing to part ways just yet.

"If y'all don't get movin', you'll miss your flights," Murdock finally said. This time, B.A. did give him a hug, pulling his head to his shoulder and patting his back.

"You stay outta trouble, Crazy Man, or I'll sic my Mama on you," he told the pilot, who was flapping his arms and struggling.

"I can't breathe!" Murdock gasped, and B.A. released him, smacking him on the arm.

Face hugged Murdock fiercely, glad it was so cold and windy, or folks might have thought the tears in his eyes were from feeling miserable at leaving his best friend in North Carolina. "God, I'm gonna miss you," he admitted, roughing the captain's hair and grinning, bouncing up in the bitter cold. "Ohio is gonna be dull."

"I think it already is, except during election season," Murdock nodded.

Finally, Hannibal gave Murdock a sharp salute, then pulled him into a warm, fatherly embrace, and quietly murmured, "Call your father, okay?"

"I will, Boss. I promise."

"Good. The man loves you with all his heart – you know that. Ah, hell, we all do. But we'll be back here in three days. Take care of yourself…and…you know…get some rest."

Murdock nodded and had to grab his cap before it blew off. They finally made a break for it, all four of them running in opposite directions – Face toward a C-130 that would carry him and a bunch of other soldiers to Cleveland; B.A. toward a busload of other aerophobes, and Hannibal toward a chopper that would transport him to Charlotte, where he would connect with a flight to Boston. Murdock ran for the hangars, and made it inside with a little feeling left in his fingers. It was Christmas Eve, and he had to get to his house and roast a turkey.

He stood in the hangar for a while, watching Face's plane take off, and sighed before turning to head out to recon a Jeep. He was startled to see Seaborn working on the engine of a Huey, muttering to herself as she removed a part, examined it rather myopically, and put it on the ground with several other dirty, greasy chopper parts.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her. He had picked her up yesterday evening from the hospital and delivered her to her quarters on base, and knew she had orders to rest for the next few days. Yet here she was, being pigheaded as usual, and limping from the wound on her leg. He frowned at her, and made a full 'pulling rank' motion that made her stand up straighter.

"Working," she said. "I got bored, okay? You…you said not to come 'round 'til six. It's only three!"

"Is that Huey due someplace soon?" he asked her. "Like, is Santa using it tonight or somethin'?"

"No…it just needed to be worked on…and I doubt the reindeer'd fit inside it."

"Well, then, put down those tools, wash your hands and come on…you can help me open the cans of cranberry sauce."

* * *

Seaborn wandered around Murdock's house, peering into still-empty rooms, not knowing what else to do until time to eat. The whole placed smelled of turkey and sage, and the stereo was playing Bill Cosby's routine on dentists. Only the large master bedroom had furniture, if one could call a twin bed and a foot locker 'furniture'. The house was also cold, except for the living room and the kitchen, which were both being warmed by a crackling fire, and so finally she made her way back to the fireplace, where she crouched down and warmed her freezing hands.

Never in her life had she been alone in a man's house. She frankly had no idea of what was expected of her. It wasn't as though she thought he would make a pass at her – no one had ever done that to her, either, except for one unpleasant experience in high school, and that guy still spoke with a lisp. She finally pulled her coat off and hugged herself as she looked into the cheerful fire.

"I gotta say," he said to her, startling her from her thoughts and handing her a cup of something hot and apple-scented. "Whoever decided to make that a double fireplace had a good idea. I feel like I oughtta get one of those big kettles and hang it there, over the fire. But what would I put in it? Laundry? Eye of newt?"

She smiled and shook her head. "I have no idea. We had a wood stove, back home. It was pretty warm, and we did all our cookin' on it, too." She sniffed at the concoction in her cup and looked up at him, wary. "What is this?"

"Wassl," he answered. "Well, we called it wassl back home. Up north I guess they call it wassail. You know…

_Here we come a-wassailing  
Among the leaves so green;  
Here we come a-wand'ring  
So fair to be seen._"

He shrugged. "I prefer wassl, m'self. Sounds better."

"Oh. Right." She took a sip, and the stick of cinnamon bumped against her nose. "Oh…oh, that's bettern' hot Dr Pepper."

He laughed. "Really? Well, there's a compliment for the ages. Come an' help me with the damn' turkey."

She followed him into the kitchen, sipping at her wassl and looking around. There was a middle island, with a sink, and she washed her hands quickly while he opened the oven and pulled out a good-sized Butterball. "What do I do?" she asked him.

He put the turkey on the stove and rolled back the foil. "Ah…_she eez cooked, mon chere_!" He used the hooks to lift the bird out and set in on a rack on the countertop, and began to pour the drippings onto the large pan of cornmeal, dried bread, biscuit and sage mix he had waiting. "_Look at zees…all zee sage that could be found in zee North Carolina_!" He switched over to more than passable imitation of Julia Child and popped the dressing into the oven. "Now with the turkey, it must be kept toasty warm while the cornbread dressing roasts, but it cannot be allowed to dry out, or it will taste like _shit_."

"Somehow, I can't see Julia Child saying that word. Even if she did live in France."

"Not on PBS, true, but this is my damn' cookin' program, so I'll say what I want. Now, I seem to recall that you prepared a cherry cheesecake when we got here, as per my command, so let's see if it's properly chilled…"

"What if it's not?" she asked, opening the fridge and scrutinizing the covered pie.

"Then we'll drink it!"

Seaborn took the pie out and took the plastic shell off, and wiggled it a little. "Almost ready. I still prefer it to be firm, not all wiggly."

"Will be after we've eaten supper. I made a pumpkin pie, and a pecan pie, too, even though I hate pecans with an undying and admittedly unreasonable passion."

"Why?"

"Got stung by a bee while I was eatin' pecans one day. You know how it goes – horse is to saddle, as egg is to chicken, as bee-sting is to pecans. Do you like pecans?" He narrowed his eyes. "And you don't call 'em 'pee-kans' do you? 'Cause then I will label you a Yankee and a reprobate, and remind you that you are putting the em-fasis on the wrong sil-abble."

"I love 'em…_peck-ahs_…"

"Good. You can eat the whole damn thing. I'll eat the pumpkin pie and the cheesecake."

"Like hell you will!"

* * *

Seaborn couldn't remember having eaten quite so much. She took another bite of the dressing as she passed through the kitchen, cleaning up here and there, before going back out to the living room. It was almost ten o'clock, and he was sprawled on the beanbag chair, watching the fire. The firelight seemed to accentuate every feature of his face, and she remembered the first time she had seen him.

It had been early autumn, and he'd been standing in the hangar with the rest of his team, having a loud, arm-waving argument over something to do with jet fuel, a flagpole, an Apache chopper and a plastic flamingo. She had had no idea what they were so angry about, and they all looked like fierce, battle-hardened soldiers having a potentially lethal disagreement. If she had been anyone else, she would have run away in terror, but as such she had stood there and listened to them yell at each other. When the fight finally ended – the handsome one apparently having won on a technicality – Murdock had glanced over and spotted her. Instead of lingering anger or bitterness, she had instead caught a slightly manic but cheerful gleam in his eyes. He had given her a quick finger salute and trotted away, following the huge black man and starting yet another squabble with him.

Never before had she experienced _vertigo_, but she had experienced it then. She chalked it up to just being lonely and to the hormones and disconcerting female emotions that plagued her from time to time, but that feeling had never left. She had thus remained belligerent toward the entire A-Team, save Baracus, who was rather nice to her (the bigger a guy was, the more of a teddy bear he tended to be anyway, from her own experience). She was respectful toward Smith, who was something of a legend, but sensed that Peck never wanted nor demanded respect from anyone. Murdock, on the other hand, she avoided. But her curiosity about him had remained, and she had dug up everything she could find about him online and in the base records. She had been startled to read of commitments to mental institutions, capture and torture during the Gulf War, release into the A-Team's custody and care; a flight record that was the envy of every pilot in any branch of the service, and more medals and commendations than could be counted. Six feet one inch, dark hair, 'a slight limp resulting from a shoot-down in Kuwait', one hundred eighty-five pounds…but for a long time, she couldn't find out what color his eyes were – it wasn't as though she ever got close enough to him to find out. So the day she had cut herself on the nail had been a perfect opportunity.

For want of a nail, a kingdom was lost. And because of a nail, she was sitting in his living room now, watching him nod off into a turkey-induced coma.

"Captain?" she said cautiously. "Hey…uh…I had better go. It's almost eleven."

"What?" He sat up, and struggled a bit in the beanbag before finally extricating himself from it. "You don't have to go. It's damn cold out there. You can sleep in my bed…I mean…I mean, you can sleep…in there. I'll turn the heat up and sleep out here."

"Uh…I don't think…"

"Look, it's snowing. I'd have to drive you home, and then I'd have to drive back here and prob'ly wreck the Jeep and die in a snowdrift and you'd never forgive yourself."

She sighed. "So you're going for the guilt reflex."

"Is it working?"

"Yes, I suppose so." She sighed and sat down in the room's only other chair – a rather battered but sturdy old Barcalounger he had insisted she use. It was extremely comfortable, if rat-ass ugly, and she settled in, relaxing. She made a small yelping sound when another cup of steaming wassl was placed in her hands.

"Oh, by the way, I have somethin' for ya…" he said. "Be right back."

Seaborn was horrified – she had gotten him _nothing_. Here he was, cooking for her and going to all this trouble, and she hadn't even thought of buying him something. Not even a friggin' snowglobe, for God's sake. Appalled, she took a sip of the wassl, sighing as it spread fingers of warmth through her entire body. She opened her eyes and saw him turning up the thermostat.

"Most of the time, I prefer it cold," he told her, going into the kitchen and making rattling noises. "Durin' the summer, I usually have the air down to about sixty. Whoever invented air conditioning, even if he was the meanest, nastiest Yankee bastard that ever lived, oughta get a cool place in hell for it."

She laughed and took another sip of the wassl, sighing happily. The stuff tasted so good it had to be sinful. "I'm of the opinion that the inventor of air machines was a Southerner, and prob'ly a Baptist."

"Yeah…prob'ly." He took his seat in the bean bag again, sipping from his own cup. "You know, you should never go fishin' with just one Baptist."

"Why's that?"

"Cause if you do, he'll drink all the beer."

Seaborn giggled, then hiccupped, which embarrassed her immensely, and he snickered. "All right, all right…" He reached behind the chair and came back up with a small package, wrapped in pretty blue paper with a red ribbon. "There you go…merry Christmas, baby."

"I didn't get you anything," she said softly, finally taking the package from his hand.

"Didn't have to. I just figured you'd like it."

She shook it, which made his eyebrows lift.

"Best way of findin' out what it _is_, is _opening_ it," he instructed her.

She flushed and finally ran her fingers under the tape and carefully removing the wrapping, which he also seemed to find rather interesting. Slowly and carefully, she opened the box and smiled down at the gift – or actually, little gifts. There was a small, thin, shining silver chain necklace, and with it were tiny charms – a little chopper, a conch shell, a St. Christopher medallion, and a tiny lion, all made of pure silver.

"Uh…do you like them?" he asked her, licking his lips nervously. "The chopper's pretty obvious, but the conch shell is…you know…you were born on the sea, like Aphrodite, and you travel a lot, like all Army personnel, so St. Christopher, and the lion is for Scotland – home of the brave, land of the free. Hopefully, the chain's long enough you can wear it and it won't get in the way while you're workin', or flyin'. You can hide it under your…uh…shirt."

"I…thank you," she said softly. "Where did you find them?"

He shrugged. "I have many connections in the underworld. Plus there's Wal-Mart."

She covered her mouth with her knuckles and struggled to keep from laughing.

"Ah…ah…there it is! It's about to happen…Seaborn Buchanan…is…_laughing_!"

The dam broke and she burst into laughter, and he sat back, pleased, as she threw her head back and laughed until she was exhausted and her sides hurt. "You are such a nut!"

"Yep. I sure am." He swirled the contents of his cup, looking thoughtful. "I'll bet your…your boyfriend back in Tennessee is really…really missin' ya."

Seaborn's cheeks pinked and she shook her head. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Really? No boyfriend at all? I'd've thought…"

"Well…I…uh…just never…did."

He stood up and took her cup. "Want a refill?"

"Oh…no thanks…I'd better not."

He took the cups to the kitchen and put them in the sink, running water in them to let them soak, and returned. He went to the fireplace, studied the clock for a second, and touched the mirror he had placed up there a few days ago. He had bought it at Wal-Mart, along with the charms, for no particular reason except that he figured he might need one, some day. You never know when you might crash on a mountain and need to use the mirror to signal search planes, he had thought. Though, as he recalled from his Boy Scout days, he had been hell at semaphore signals and flashing mirrors, and had deliberately misspelled words – 'HERP', instead of 'HELP', and so on – while practicing for the Scout leader. In fact, that was why he had lasted just one week as a Boy Scout. He already knew knots and other considerably more helpful hand signals anyway.

He went back to the living room and flopped onto the beanbag chair.

"Surely you've had a boyfriend, though. Lots of 'em, right? I mean…you're a pretty girl."

She laughed again, and blushed. "I never had one, actually…and I'm not pretty."

"You're kidding."

Seaborn shook her head. "No. Not even one."

"I mean, you…you think you're not pretty. You are pretty."

She laughed again, and that was the final straw. He got up, grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet, and dragged her over to the fireplace. He got the mirror down – finally, a practical use for the damned thing – and turned it to her. "There."

"There…there what?" she asked, bewildered.

"Pretty girl." He nodded firmly, pointing at her image in the mirror.

She stared at herself, and flushed, pushing an errant lock of hair back behind her ear. The wind must have blown it out, she thought. He went to the box of charms, and quickly strung them onto the chain, and finally handed it to her, letting them dangle down from his hand. Shyly, carefully avoiding contact, she took it and somehow managed to put it on, in spite of the small clasp.

"See?" he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, so…so I didn't break the mirror…"

He looked exasperated. "Good Lord, woman, what's the matter with you? I got self-esteem issues, too, but I don't think I'm a _complete_ disaster. I mean…I'm not Face, but I also know I'm not friggin' _Gollum_."

"No, you're not. And _Face_ isn't even as good-looking as Face."

That didn't seem to please him much. He put the mirror back on the mantle and stood there, hands on his hips, chewing on his lip. She looked down, knowing she had said the wrong thing. Finally, he turned and went into the kitchen, and she heard him washing dishes. Seaborn stumbled to the Barcalounger and sat down, curling up in the chair, tucking her feet under and sat there, fingering the charms and smiling softly, trying to think of anybody ever having given her a gift like this. Not even her father – who knew nor understood nothing of girls – had given her anything that didn't need to be plugged in or required regular oiling. He had never even bought her dress, in fact, or a piece of jewelry.

She sighed and blinked at the firelight, and the soft lights from the house across the street, becoming more and more drowsy with each passing second. She put her head back and let go of the conch shell, turning a little in the chair and tucking her hand under her cheek.

"You can turn the TV on, if you like," he called from the kitchen. There was no sound from the living, room, though, so Murdock peeked around the corner to see what she was up to. He was surprised to see that she had fallen asleep, curled up like a kitten on the Barcalounger. Some Hellcat, he thought, and considered picking her up and moving her into his bedroom, but finally decided that was too dangerous. She might wake up and freak out. So he went down the hall and searched for a blanket instead. Finally, he found one of the few things he had left over from his childhood – the old quilt his grandmother had made from the discarded flannel and cotton shirts of various male members of the Murdock family. He fingered it for a moment before snapping it out and letting it fall on her. It still smelled of _clean_ and warm, just as it had from his earliest memories. Face had actually called to Texas one Christmas, talked to Marie, and had the damned thing mailed to him in friggin' _Poland_. Murdock had kept up with it ever since, mailing it from place to place as need be, and otherwise keeping it in careful storage. It was one of the few things he owned that really meant anything to him, besides his cap and his leather bomber jacket.

Carefully, he tucked the quilt around Seaborn, who barely stirred, and stood for a moment, watching her. She was still a temperamental little hellcat, but that was part of her charm, he decided, though she had been a lot more…_friendly_ tonight. Probably just turkey stupor, he decided, but she had liked the charms, and that, frankly, elated and terrified him at once. The girl at the gift counter had recommended them all when he'd stammered through describing Seaborn, and then had recommended the silver chain as well, deciding that a charm bracelet was a bad idea for a chopper pilot, as it would get in the way.

He went back to his beanbag chair, stretched out and turned out the lights. The fire gave the room a warm, peaceful glow, and he could see the snow still falling outside.

Lights from a neighbor's yard were shining across the street, and he could see their little crèche – Joseph and Mary kneeling beside the little cradle, with shepherds and Wise Men watching nearby, with goats and camels milling around, making a mess and eating the hay from Baby Jesus's cradle. If Murdock had been Joseph, he'd have shooed everybody away and told them to leave them in peace – kid's the Son of God and you're bringin' goats in here?

He laughed at himself for being so ridiculous. Joseph probably had far more things on his mind than goats. Like Herod threatening to kill Mary's kid – the Son of God! – and angels telling him to high-tail to Egypt, ASAP, and so forth. He settled in, wished he had one of those stupid-looking sleeping caps, and was thinking about sugarplums (what were sugarplums?) when he finally fell asleep.

* * *

Face was glad to be home – if Fort Bragg could be called home. The flight back from Ohio had been a nightmare, with him wishing Murdock had been up there at the controls, instead of a pimply-faced kid named Kyle who looked like his balls hadn't even dropped yet. But he was home, and by God, he was going over to Murdock's place in hopes of leftover turkey and dressing.

He didn't even go up to his own place first – he jumped out of the Humvee he'd ridden in with some other soldiers and found his own Jeep. He piled two packages in and took off toward the ranking officers' area of the base, and grinned again when he pulled into Murdock's driveway. All it had taken was a few transpositions of names and addresses, a little 'glitch' and the guy finally had a nice place to stay and maybe would start collecting some furniture aside from a beanbag chair, a Barcalounger with a weave designed by blind homeless clowns, and some pots and pans.

He pounded on the door, and a few moments later Murdock finally answered, wearing pajama bottoms and a T-shirt that said 'Get off of my cloud!' "Oh…hey, Facey."

"Can I come in? I'm freezin'! And I got somethin' for ya, man!"

Murdock, barefoot and sleepy, stepped aside, and Face rumbled in. "You are alone, aren't you?"

"Aren't I?" Murdock looked around, nervous.

"Okay…so…here ya go." He shoved two large packages into Murdock's arms. "C'mon…ya got any turkey left?"

"Yeah. Mostly dark meat."

"Don't care. Dressing?"

"Aye…"

"How was your Christmas?"

"Good."

"Good?" Face turned around, his interest immediately peaked by the enigmatic answer. "Spend it alone?"

"No."

"Oh. _Oh_…so…did a stray kitten come by or somethin'?" Face grinned. "Drink a bowl of cream, curl up in your lap?"

"No."

"Are you going to give me any details?"

"No."

"Spoilsport!"

"Correct. Here, eat some dressing and tell me all about the exciting nightlife of Cleveland."

* * *

Face rambled from one hangar to the next, trying to find Sergeant Buchanan and doing a little schmoozing with some of the females who worked in the area – he had never really thought of dipping into that particular pool, but he easily realized he had a whole new source of amusement, from what he was seeing. He passed her CO at last and introduced himself – the woman was a six-foot three-inch Amazon, but surprisingly kind-eyed and humorous, and it took very little effort for him to get her to tell him where the girl was. "Hangar six. She's working on some beat-up old Huey."

"Oh. Good." Face grinned at her and trotted off. He was cheerful, if shivering cold, when he finally located her – she was standing on top of the chopper, shifting from side to side, apparently doing some kind of tweaking that had to have been awfully necessary, because it looked horribly dangerous otherwise.

"Hey!" he called to her, waving. "How ya doin', sweetcakes?"

She rolled her eyes – a definite improvement – and only made a slight gesture of greeting in return. At least it wasn't the bird, he thought with a grin. She climbed down, remarkably agile, and Face took note that she was wearing a little silver necklace.

"Lieutenant…sir," she said, but didn't salute. He grinned at her.

"Have a nice Christmas?"

"It was…it was nice."

"Just…nice?"

She shrugged and went to the toolbox, collecting a few wrenches and other frightening-looking instruments of either repair or torture, depending on one's point of view. "Yes, nice."

"Get any presents?"

Buchanan sighed. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. Just payin' a friendly visit, you know. Besides, any friend of my friend is…well, I would hope…a friend of mine."

"What?"

"You're Murdock's friend, right? So I'm just droppin' by, sayin' hello, how are ya, what's shakin', dja get any, that kinda thing."

"W-what…?" Her eyes widened, and Face took a closer look at her. Yeah, under that dirt and tough was a shy, rather vulnerable and drop-dead sexy woman. A little cleaning up and just a few minor adjustments and she'd be dragging them around on a string. Gorgeous eyes, too. Storm gray, or maybe dove-gray when she's calm, which isn't often.

"You know, it's not that hard to see."

"What isn't?" she snapped, becoming annoyed with him. She was also holding a largish wrench, so he took a small step backward.

"Well…you see…you never touch him."

"Okay, so what drugs did you find in Ohio?" she snapped.

He laughed. "And he never touches you, either."

"What are you talking about, you twit?"

"Murdock. What, you think nobody else sees it, baby? C'mon! You two never touch each other! You think nobody notices that?"

She turned away from him and closed her eyes tight, then turned back to face him again. "You listen here…you…you have no right…"

"And you listen…you're very young, and he's pretty messed up, but attraction is attraction, and you can't deny it's there. I dunno if it's just that, or if it's pheromones, or something deeper than that, but it's there and I'm not the only person to have noticed. People that really like each other but don't want other people to know they like each other always try to avoid touching each other, but other people end up noticing no matter what you do, _because_ you're avoiding it. It's like you worry that there'll be an explosion and the lights'll go out or somethin'." He stepped closer to her then, and lowered his voice, eyes narrowing just a little. "But if you hurt him, I'll hunt you down and kill you, and then I'll bury you in the woods. _Dogs_ won't find your body." He stepped back and grinned. "You're coming to my New Years' party, right?"

"I…I'm not…I don't know…you…"

"Face it, baby. That stuff makes the world go 'round. How d'ya think any of us got here? It's just the risk that's scary, not the result. Take your chances – it's always worth it, in the end. Wear somethin' sexy, by the way. It's gonna be a fun night." He saluted her and walked away, whistling cheerfully. She held the wrench in her hand for a long time before finally flinging it into the toolbox and climbing into the chopper, wanting to just be alone and shake a bit. She closed her eyes and reached into her shirt, finding the little charms on her necklace, and fingered them, her heart pounding. For some reason, the little conch shell was extremely comforting.

She heard someone whistling, and immediately recognized the tune – that wassailing song he had sung on Christmas Eve. She scrambled down and hid under the yoke – or would have, if there had been room and she hadn't bonked her head on the console. "Shit…damn it…"

Murdock pulled the door open and stared at her. "What are you doing?"

"I…uh…I…dropped…this…something…" She fumbled around until luck presented her with a loose bolt. Always a good sign on a chopper, she thought darkly before handing it to him – avoiding letting her skin come in contact with his, dropping it into his palm. She felt her cheeks heat and looked around at everything but him.

"Oh. Thought I heard a thump."

"Yes. I hit my head."

"Thus the cursing."

"Yes."

"I'm…uh…well, I'm goin' into town…Face wants me to buy a bunch of junk for the party – gave me a roll of no-doubt laundered cash here and I'm to purchase a Humvee-load of unhealthy foods and booze, plus some of those annoying little clapper things – look like tiny paddleboards with little balls on strings, y'know? Even I hate those things – and maracas and other suchlike crap and party favors. Wanna come with me?"

"Oh…I…I can't…I have…work…"

"All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl, baby."

"I'm sorry…I just…can't."

He sighed and finally shrugged. She had left on Christmas morning, before he'd even awakened, and had holed up in her tiny quarters, wrapped up in her chenille blanket and trying not to think about him at all but unable to think about anything but him. For the past two days, she had avoided him very carefully, making sure to be working at all times, even when her CO told her to take a break or she'd collapse. Her nerves were rattled. They were even more rattled now.

"Okay. Your loss. You coulda gone to Wal-Mart with me. There's lots of fun stuff to do at Wal-Mart, y'know."

"I can but imagine," she said.

"You are coming to Face's bash, right? Lots of drunks, lots of fistfights, lots of screaming and cursing. It'll be just like New Years' at Sandringham."

She managed a weak smile. "I'll…I'll try to come."

"Good." He grinned at her, and she blushed again. "So…uh…see ya tomorrow night, then, right?"

"Right."

He gave her forearm a light punch, and she stepped away from him. "See ya."

"Yes. I'll…right. Yes. I'll see you. Tomorrow. Night."

For a moment, he seemed like he wanted to say something else, and she nervously licked her lips. But he finally took his cap off, scratching the back of his head, before he ambled away, hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling. Seaborn sat down inside the chopper door and considered banging her head several times with the wrench.

She was going to have to go buy a dress.


	6. Sold!

I actually had part 6 written before I wrote part 5. Weird. I don't do that often, as I have a terrible memory (which is why I also avoid lying about anything, so I can't be a politician).

* * *

"This is a fire hazard," Hannibal said, scanning the ballroom Face had hired for his New Year's bash.

Of course, how the lieutenant had managed to procure this particular room was a question best left unasked and unanswered. He tugged uncomfortably at his bowtie, shook his head, and went on in. At this party, rank and serial number was out the window – everybody was equal tonight, and everybody was expected to get equally drunk and make an equally big fool of him or herself. Hannibal was in no mood for either, though. He looked around for a familiar face and finally spotted Murdock at the bar, drinking a beer and looking uneasy.

"I get the feeling that before the night's over, somebody's gonna present a greased pig and demand we chase it," he told the jittery captain, who nodded in agreement. Still, Murdock looked pretty spiffy in a dark suit and tie, and Hannibal had gone for a tweed coat (to really irritate his fashion-conscious XO) and bowtie to ring in the New Year. Face's parties were always fun, in a way, but frequently ended in visits from the police, a girl dancing naked on a table _long_ before midnight, and somebody wearing the punchbowl as a hat. Hannibal found it odd, however, that Murdock was never actually involved in any of those things. Maybe it was the meds he took, but the pilot never over-indulged in alcohol. In fact, he tended to just drink a sociable beer or two and keep out of _that_ kind of trouble.

"Where is Face, anyway?"

"Chattin' up that little chippy over there," Murdock nodded toward the other end of the bar. Face was there, decked out in a sharp black tux and turning on the charm to a newcomer on base that Hannibal only knew as Lieutenant Sosa. Hannibal shook his head – Face had his work cut out for him. He looked around for B.A., knowing the mechanic was probably hiding by now, and didn't see him. Good luck Sergeant, he thought, and signaled for a beer.

"You gonna dance with anybody?" he asked Murdock.

"Not if I can avoid it. I'm sure many of the women here are armed, but I doubt anybody's gonna pull a gat on me just to make me do a watusi around the dancefloor."

Hannibal laughed and clapped Murdock on the shoulder. "Have fun, though, kid. Fillmore told me today that you're doing a lot better."

"Almost back to abnormal, sir," Murdock nodded. He took another swig of his beer, but apparently he saw something over Hannibal's shoulder that startled him, because he gulped and the beer went down the wrong hatch. He coughed helplessly, with the Colonel giving him a few concerned pats on the back to help him. When Hannibal turned around, he almost did his own spit take and stared, wide-eyed.

Sgt. Buchanan was standing there, wearing a little dark silver-blue cocktail dress and high heels, complemented by a silver chain with tiny silver charms. Her red hair was down around her shoulders in a thick, silky skein, and she was glowing with youth and excellent health, and even though she looked horribly uncomfortable in her outfit, she was making one hell of an impression. Several of the young soldiers in the room were staring at her, goggle-eyed, nudging each other and whispering.

Murdock was also staring at Buchanan, who not only seemed uncertain about what to do with her hands, but also was extremely uneasy about her breasts, which were being exposed in a way never before experienced, even if the effect was greatly appreciated by all members of the male sex. Plus she had legs that seemed to go on forever – something he definitely appreciated. He had a definite thing about legs. Ever since the eighth grade, when he'd had the tall, luscious, blonde Miss Mills as his algebra teacher.

Miss Mills looked like a Bulgarian peasant woman compared to Seaborn Buchanan.

Buchanan looked nervous, and Murdock eyed the other guys staring at her until they took the signal and moved away. She swallowed and knew her face was turning pink.

It wasn't as though she wasn't decently covered, and she was wearing some kind of thin scarf-type thing to use as a wrap if necessary, but the dress was a lot more low-cut than anything she'd ever put on before. Even though the girl at the boutique had told her that she looked amazing in it, she felt almost naked – to her, it was best described as a gownless evening strap. Frankly, she wanted to pin her hair back up, put her cap back on, change back into her fatigues and go take a Jeep apart and put it back together. She nervously fumbled with a tiny velvet purse (the salesgirl saying she needed it for 'lipstick and mad money') and looked down, making sure not lick her lips or get her mascara gummy. The salesgirl had been adamant about that, stating that only a guy should be permitted to remove any of her lipstick, and the mascara could be removed at his apartment tomorrow morning.

_Oh, God_, she thought, before forcing herself to smile. "Uh…hi..." She gestured to her left ankle. "Got my ankle all wrapped up, but you can barely see…see the bandage. It doesn't even hurt." In gesturing, however, she bent a little bit and Hannibal and Murdock _both_ forced their gazes upward, to the ceiling, which was covered with helium balloons. Murdock, however, succumbed to his less noble self and took a quick glance and had to rub his temples.

"Good," Hannibal nodded, finally kick-starting his brain. He glanced at Murdock, who had also managed to regain control of his expression and was looking everywhere but at Buchanan's lovely and well-developed chest. "Glad to hear that. You're looking very…uh…healthy…I mean, you look…er…good. Healthy. Yes."

"Uh…well…ye-…er…thank you," she nodded at last, becoming extremely nervous with all these people staring at her.

Face came bustling back over, and did a double-take when he saw Buchanan. His eyes widened, but instead of a leering grin, he smiled with genuine pleasure at the sight of her. "Wow. Now that there is what they call 'dressed to kill'. You should try that look more often! Try it on the Taliban – they'd give up on the whole damn' notion of burkhas!"

She flushed and clutched the velvet purse even tighter, forgetting to snap at him.

He snagged Sosa and did the introductions, then glared at Hannibal. "Tweed, Hannibal? Really? I said 'tuxes'…not even Murdock listened to me. Geesh…"

Hannibal shrugged, unconcerned. Murdock tugged nervously at his tie. Buchanan didn't know what to do and so she tried to just stand still and not tip over, remembering the teasing she'd endured in school when she'd started to develop not only what the guys back home had called 'the dream rack', but also curves and legs and flawless skin – of course, she had frequently gotten her skin scuffed and dirty from getting into fights, and had taken to wearing jeans and bulky clothes, hoping to just be ignored, and started hanging out the auto shop and the air field. Had those guys stared at her too? She blinked, trying to remember. She couldn't recall. Besides, the disco ball above her was flashing and hurting her eyes, and the noise was getting louder with each passing moment.

She hadn't worn heels since…well, ever. She was a jeans and workboots girl. The girl at the boutique had tried and failed to talk her into stilettos, but Seaborn had more sense than that and had gone for simple pumps, but her feet will killing her already. Everyone fell silent, for various reasons, with Sosa studying Buchanan with interest, recognizing the girl's discomfort. Seaborn had no notion of assessing the lieutenant's outfit (black cocktail dress, black shoes, tons of attitude) – she didn't know she was supposed to be comparing herself to anybody.

"Okay, so let's go over tonight's schedule," Face said. "First is the bachelor auction…"

"The what?" Hannibal and Murdock said in stereo, whirling around to stare at Face.

"The bachelor auction…we are raising money for a local _children's hospital_, thank you." He gave Murdock and Hannibal a hard stare. "Both of you are on the block, and B.A., too, if I can find him – I'll be sending the bloodhounds out soon. I'm also being sold." He grinned happily, giving Sosa a significant look.

"I'll guess it'll be Reserve Not Attained," Murdock said with a smirk.

"I am not being sold!" Hannibal snarled. "You did this to me before…remember Seoul?"

"Oh, come on. Didn't it excite you? Didn't it give you a thrill, when the auctioneer yelled 'Sold American!' and you fell into the arms of your waiting Cinderella?"

"My Cinderella was a drunk lesbian!" Hannibal snapped. "She smelled like Old Spice!"

"Okay, okay, but that's a really bad example. Really, really bad - I think you had a facial tic for, like, a week after that. But…but, hey, if you can't make a fool of yourself for a bunch of sick kids, who can you make a fool of yourself over? Huh? C'mon! Answer me that."

"How 'bout her?" Murdock growled, gesturing toward Sosa. "You're bound to do that anyway, auction or no auction."

"Hey, now, wait a minute. I recall you being sold for almost two thousand dollars!" Face said, stepping back from the increasingly angry pilot.

"Only after you told them that I had a month to live and that I _really wanted to finally lose my virginity_! And that woman scared the hell out of me! She had a pet python named Petey. _Petey_."

Sosa, by this time, was weak with laughter, holding her hand over her face and giggling uncontrollably. "Wait…wait a minute..you guys are…a...a team?"

"Well, yeah," Face said, gesturing helplessly. "We just…bicker a lot."

Buchanan, unable to bear it any longer, had moved away and was heading toward a table. She opened her tiny purse and saw that she had exactly five dollars on her. She glanced at Murdock, closed her eyes briefly, and sat down. Her evening was definitely off to a rousing start, and could only get better from here.

* * *

Sosa, having finally tired of dancing with Face and listening to him and Hannibal fight about the upcoming bachelor auction, made her way over to Sgt. Buchanan's table and sat down. The little pilot – she weighed, what, a hundred pounds, Sosa thought – had a toughness about her that made her figure the girl was a kindred spirit. "Hi," she said pleasantly. "Look at them – I can just see a kitten fight breaking out soon – hair-pulling, slapping, hissing, gunplay, and so on. Where'd the other guy go – the tall lanky one? What's his name?"

"Murdock…Captain Murdock," Buchanan said quietly.

Charissa smiled. "He's kinda cute, isn't he? Quirky, but cute."

Buchanan gave her a sharp look, and Sosa could have sworn she saw the girl's claws grow an inch. She smiled and sat back in her chair, kicking her shoes off.

"Don't worry, I'm here with Face…I guess. He told me you're a pilot?"

"Right." Buchanan took a drink from her glass of whiskey. "And I don't know _why_ I'm here…um…ma'am."

"Oh, well, that's a question for the ages," Sosa laughed. "I'm Charissa, by the way. What's your name?"

"Sergeant S.A. Buchanan."

"Just…S.A.?"

The girl shrugged, making a little sound that indicated Charissa should drop that subject. The lieutenant shrugged. "Well, let's see…I have some money on me. I guess I'll have to buy Face for the evening, or he'll go into a door-slamming snit. How much do you have on you?"

"Five dollars," Buchanan answered miserably, taking another sip of her whiskey.

"So…which bull of this ball are you buyin'? Aside from all the bull you'll have to pretend to buy later?"

"Uh…well…none of them," Buchanan said, looking both bereft and appalled at once, and Sosa scrutinized her more carefully. She had very definite potential, Charissa decided. The hair was lovely, the dress did a lot for an already fit and nicely curved figure, and she had a vulnerability about her that made her very endearing. Plus those charms on her necklace were very intriguing. All the kid needed really was some self-confidence when it came to the opposite sex and she'd be stopping traffic while wearing curlers, a muumuu and bunny slippers.

Charissa dug in her equally tiny purse and extracted several bills. "Here," she said. Buchanan stared down at the money – five crisp one-hundred dollar bills – and gulped, looking up at her, astonished. "So long as the guy you're interested in doesn't have, say, a month to live, this should be enough." She grinned and sat back. "Go ahead, take it. It's a loan – you can pay me back when you can, or maybe I'll just call in a favor some day. Who're you gonna bid on?"

* * *

"Okay, Murdock…just stand there and let me do the talkin', okay? And if the bidding slows down, just drop a dime on the floor and pretend you're having a hard time pickin' it up…now go!"

The pilot froze. "No. I'm not ready!"

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not!"

"Listen, Murdock. I've thrown a lot of little babies into these waters and they all came up swimming. So just go!" He turned the captain around and shoved him through the gap in the curtain. He turned to try and get away, but was shoved back out again.

B.A. had not been found so far, and Face had sent out three large MP's to find him, so he had been forced to change the schedule a little. Murdock was supposed to have been next-to-last, in fact, with Face the last item on the card, to be auctioned off by Major Ealey, but Major Ealey was now seriously drunk and sitting outside by the garbage cans, tossing up his supper and saying the Rosary. It was an hour 'til midnight, most of the money had been spent and the hospital's goal of six grand had been met and exceeded, to Face's utter delight. Murdock, he knew, would bring a nice sum, no matter what the pilot said about it.

The pilot faced the crowd of women, all of whom fell silent as they studied him, and felt his stomach flip. He didn't know any of them, aside from Sosa and Seaborn, both of whom were sitting together. Sosa was smiling, looking very amused, and Seaborn looked kind of miserable. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and forced himself to step forward. Face came bustling out, accepting a round of cheers, and went to the podium, grabbing a gavel.

"All right, ladies, this is Captain James Murdock, the best pilot alive. Can fly anything. Can fly stuff that shouldn't be flown, even. I think he could fly a friggin' house, if necessary. Graduated first in his class from the Army flight academy. Flew with the Thunderbirds and the Screamin' Eagles…graduated top of his class from UT…er…played centerfield for the Rangers, was once in the…uh…NASA space program, has worked as a cowboy…and tended to lepers on Molokai! He's also a…a scratch golfer, carves wooden carousel horses as a hobby, won a Silver Medal at the Olympics for…uh…skeet shooting…and he likes to read!"

Hannibal, at a table with his owner (until midnight or later), snorted with laughter. The woman – an attractive and elegant creature who did not smell like Old Spice and was indicating strong heterosexual leanings – looked at him curiously. He grinned. "Oh, well, you know how it is – spice up the facts and then anchor it all with the truth."

"How much of it is the truth?" she asked him.

"Well…he doesn't usually have much time for reading…"

Murdock stared at Face, appalled, and Face shrugged. Finally, Murdock grabbed the mike from Face. "I did fly with the Thunderbirds, but I only played _Little League_ on a team called the Rangers…and it was just a bronze medal."

There was a ripple of laughter from the audience. After a moment, a hand went up and Face crowed. "Twenty!"

"Forty!" Someone waved her hand.

"Fifty!"

"Jesus," Murdock whispered, his fear of standing in front of audiences and of being sold like a yearling at Saratoga overtaking him full force. "Jesus save me…drop kick me through the goalposts…right now!"

"Seventy!"

Face was startled – the potential bidding pool had gotten thinner, and he knew there were only about ten or so women left to bid at all, and he also knew that at least four of them had had their eye on Murdock for a while. He had expected Murdock to go for maybe two hundred, but the bidding was already fast. He still egged on the audience, being unable to get Murdock to do anything but stand there looking pale and terrified. The hospital needed a new MRI, anyway.

"One hundred!" another woman yelled. Face recognized her and frowned – the base bicycle? No. Not her. Not for Murdock, anyway. He had enough psychiatric issues as it was…

"One-fifty!" someone else yelled, and Face sighed with relief.

"One-seventy-five!"

"Two hundred!"

Sosa leaned forward and whispered to Buchanan, who flushed and looked down, still clutching the five bills in her hands. Finally, Sosa rolled her eyes and yelled, "Five hundred dollars!"

There was a gasp of surprise, and there were more than a few scowls from the other women, but they had been beaten. Sosa took the money from a bewildered Buchanan and got up to head to the table to pay. She finally spotted Baracus hiding behind a potted palm and saluted him. He waved a palm frond at her in response and crouched back down, having no intention of emerging until well after midnight. She handed over the cash to the nurse from the hospital, who smiled and winked at her. "He's cute!"

"Eh…he's not for me. He's a gift." Charissa went up to the stage and had little trouble staring down a disgruntled Face, who was standing there with his hands on his hips, looking appalled. Murdock looked entirely confused and she suspected he'd be sprinting for the doors soon, so she went up there, grabbed his hand and dragged him down the steps to her table. "There now, have fun, but keep your clothes on, it's only your first date. You owe me, kiddo," she said, shoving the wild-eyed captain into a chair next to Buchanan. She nodded, gave Peck a quick salute, and left for the ladies' room.

* * *

"Er…well…it's a…pretty cold out…there," Murdock finally said lamely, at a total loss. Seaborn had pulled into herself, clearly embarrassed and scared by the events of the evening. "Didn't you bring a coat?"

"Yes, the coats were all being thrown on Sergeant Baracus, but I think he's moved since then."

"Coward," Murdock muttered. "He always hides out during these disast-…er…auctions." A waitress came by and offered him a glass of champagne, which he accepted, and grabbed another for her. "He's hiding behind the potted palm now."

B.A., spying them together, waved a palm frond at them, and Seaborn barely managed to suppress a giggle. Murdock only saluted him with his glass and took a sip.

"You look…uh…really…diff-…er, I mean, you look…nice." Murdock rubbed his nose, preparing himself for a string of angry epithets. "You look…really…good."

"Oh…" Her cheeks turned pink. "Um…thank…thank you."

Face oozed over to them, having been auctioned off and apparently reconciled to Charissa, and he was looking much happier. "Hey, man, ain't you two gonna dance? It's less than fifteen minutes 'til the ball drops…well, until _that_ ball drops." He hooted at his dirty joke. "Oh, by the way…the joke contest!" He plopped down into a chair, searched around for Baracus but didn't spot him behind the palm, and noted that Hannibal was already gone with his owner. "Huh…well, it's down to you and me this time, man," he said, jabbing Murdock on the arm. "Tell your joke, and I'll tell mine."

"What's this?" Seaborn asked, confused.

"We do this stupid, immature and incredibly politically incorrect joke contest every..."

"Which only makes the jokes considerably funnier," Face nodded.

"…New Year's Eve. I tell one, he tells one, Hannibal and B.A. each tell one, and whichever one gets the highest volume of laughs gets…what was the prize last year?"

"I think it was a new Luger pistol."

"Yeah." Murdock drank down the last of his champagne. "Useful for self-defense, if your joke really sucks."

"Okay, Murdock, tell your joke," Face said. "Go on."

"Okay, okay…" He shrugged and gave Buchanan an apologetic look. "Okay…about three hundred years ago, on the shores of the Missouri River, an old Sioux chieftain is standing with all his children at his feet. Suddenly, he turns to the youngest and prettiest of the children and says, 'My child, your beauty far exceeds the majestic mountains that border our hunting grounds to the east and to the west. Your eyes are black and sparkling, like the waters that flow past our lodges on a cold winter's evening. Your hair is silver-tipped and shining, like the fur of the grizzly after it has feasted on the honey of the wild bee for the summer. Your dresses are made of the finest doeskins, and your moccasins are of the softest elkskin and ermine pelts. And I see the way your eyes light up when the young warrior Strong Bow returns from hunt, and the way you reach out touch him and to caress him, but he shies away, my child, because he knows your father is the chief. And suddenly I realize you are twenty-one summers old now, and far wise enough to choose a mate for yourself…but dammit, son, this isn't right."

Face collapsed into alcohol-fueled laughter, and sniggered for several moments. Murdock asked for a refill of his champagne. The conman settled back in his seat and tried to think of a joke, but his brain was becoming pickled, and after a while, he could only come up with a knock-knock joke. "Knock-knock!"

"Who's there?" Seaborn asked, forgetting to be uncomfortable.

"Armageddon!"

"Armageddon who?" Murdock asked.

"Armageddon cold, lemme in!"

"Ew…that's bad!" Seaborn said, waving her hand in front of her face and wrinkling her nose, but she did laugh. A little. "Where's the Luger?"

"All right, all right, you got somethin' better, baby?" Murdock asked her.

"Um…I only know one joke," she said. "It's kinda…not very funny."

"It's all about timing," Murdock told her. "Two beats, tops, before you hit the punchline. Go ahead."

"Okay…" She began wringing her hands nervously. "So…there was man named Odd. His Mama named him Odd, and obviously, he hated the name. But he grew up and married and had kids and was reasonably successful in his life, but all along, he really hated being named Odd. So as he's dying, he gathers his wife and children and grandkids and tells them that he doesn't want his name on his gravestone. Just his date of birth and date of death…no name at all. Just leave it blank, he says. So he dies and they bury him, and carve a gravestone with just the dates and no name. Only problem is, whenever anybody sees the gravestone, they say, 'Well, that's odd…'"

Face laughed and clapped. "Very good! I like that one!"

Murdock was laughing, too. "I declare a winner. Better'n my joke, I think."

"Well, yeah," Face rolled his eyes.

"So what's my prize?" Seaborn asked.

"Uh…" Face looked at them both, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Well…let's see…" He looked at Murdock, who was tossing back his third glass of champagne so far. "Murdock here will ask you to dance."

Murdock flinched. "I don't think gettin' your feet stomped on is considered a prize, at least not in most civilized countries. What's the policy in Cuba?"

"No, seriously, I mean it, Jamesie-boy," Face nodded. "Dance with her – she's the belle of the ball, ain't she?" The lieutenant was delighted when the pair looked at each other, blushed, and looked down. "Come on, man up, Murdock. That's her prize! 'sides…she owns you for now."

Murdock's eyes widened with shock, and Face cackled.

"Yeah, really…Charissa bought her, but it was in Buchanan's name." He grinned, slapping the table happily. But his glee was tempered when he saw her obvious embarrassment, and he toned it down. "I mean…hey, it was for a worthy cause, and any girl that looks as good as you oughta get out there and bust a few moves."

"I…I don't know…how to dance," she finally said, eyes still downcast. Murdock gave Face an exasperated look, but Peck wasn't deterred.

"Aw, c'mon, it's New Year's! Dance, dammit." He got up and went over to the band, which was playing something from the top forty. He gestured to the lead guitar and whispered something in the guy's ear. He came back, only weaving a little, and sat down again. "There ya go. I told 'em to play something slow. Nobody cares if you can't dance, Buchanan. Just get up and dance!"

Finally, Murdock got up and gestured to Buchanan, who finally stood and followed the captain out to the dancefloor. The loud music stopped and the band began playing Madonna's _Crazy For You_.

"I guess we'd better started with the busting of moves, such as they are," Murdock said at last. She was still standing apart from him, at just arms' length, wringing her hands. "'Course, last time I tried bustin' a move, I came pretty close to bustin' a hip, so I'll just…er…tap on a move, or something. So what happens is, you give me your hand…" Finally, she slipped her shaking hand into his, letting her long, slim fingers intertwine with his, feeling little electric sparks. "And then you put your other hand on my shoulder…right…there you go. Now, here's the really dangerous bit – I'm putting my very life on the line here, I think – I put my free hand kinda…er…around your…waist and…it's okay…I step forward with _this _foot and you step back, and then I step to the side, you slide your foot over and step forward and I step back…box step, see? Very easy. Next time, we'll try the tango and a Vienna waltz…combine the two, in fact. We'll do a wango."

She was still shaking, and her palm was rubbing against his palm, and her fingers were instinctively clutching his shoulder. They moved slowly to the music, Seaborn could smell his cologne, and she couldn't think at all. She hazarded a glance up at him, and he gave her an encouraging little smile. "You're doing fine."

"Thanks."

The music stopped suddenly. "One minute 'til midnight!" somebody yelled.

"Oh…" Seaborn stepped back, away from him. Murdock muttered something under his breath that sounded a little like 'Damn'.

He cleared his throat. "Few hours from now, I'll be finding Face somewhere, wearing a pink brassiere and bunny ears…and handcuffed to a space heater. That's what happened last year, anyway," he told her. Seaborn smiled, biting her lip, her heart pounding so hard and so fast she thought she might just keel over. _You two never touch each other_, she remembered Face's words. _You think nobody notices that?_

"Thirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight…"

"Are you having a good time so far?" he asked, having to shout to be heard.

"Good," she nodded, wincing at how stupid she sounded.

"Good," he nodded back. "You need to have a good time sometimes, baby. Hold on to twenty-three as long as you can. Once it's gone, you never get it back."

"Twenty-two…twenty-one…twenty…nineteen…eighteen…"

"I'm being deployed to Iraq next week," she told him.

"What?" He leaned forward, turning his good ear to her.

"Iraq…I'm going to Iraq in one week…"

"Well, shit…that's not…"

"Twelve…eleven…ten…"

"I just wanted to say…to say that I really…"

"Eight…seven…six…"

"I really do appreciate how…how kind you've been, when I didn't even deserve it…" she yelled. "I'm trying to improve myself. I really am…it'll just take a lot of time..." Everybody was blowing whistles, rattling those annoying little clappers, yanking crackers apart and putting on their paper crowns, shouting louder, and louder, and louder, making a racket that could surely be heard from space.

"Hey, you did deserve it. It's hell, bein' alone in the world, believe me…and you don't need to change. You're fine the way you are."

"Three…two…"

"Well…thank you, anyway…really? I…"

"Happy New Year!" The crowd got even louder and wilder. Champagne bottles were popped, _Auld Lang Syne_ was started up by the band, everyone trying to sing the incomprehensible lyrics through piles of free food and booze. Couples began groping each other and bending each other over, kissing with exaggerated passion. Seaborn was bumped into Murdock by the madding crowd, and he said something that sounded like an apology, but she was already grabbing his lapel and pulling him down. She shyly pressed her lips to his, and had it not been so noisy, she would have heard his surprised gasp, but there was no mistaking his reaction. He moved into the kiss, guiding her only a little, his hand moving to stroke her jaw and the line of her neck. Seaborn's arms slipped around his neck, kissing him almost desperately as he pulled her to him. She ran her hands through his hair and said his name, just once.

Just as suddenly, she jerked from his embrace and ran away, disappearing into the roiling crowd.

Ticker tape and balloons fell all around him. Somebody blew a kazoo in his ear, and somebody else yelled something that sounded like 'Happy New Year, Captain!' but might have been 'Honging Yo Woo Ear, Punkin,' for all he knew, as his left eardrum was a bit damaged from his final escape attempt from that hospital in Mexico.

He didn't move, ignoring the noise and the confetti falling all over him, not feeling the balloons bouncing off his head, and stood there for a long time, wondering what he was supposed to do now.


	7. Tomahawk

**Now don't get mad, y'all. Murdock isn't going to hurt her.**

**

* * *

**Face was of the very strong opinion that if there was an Olympic medal for matchmaking, and reading all those subtle and not-so-subtle signals about attraction, he would get a friggin' _gold_. The New Years' bash had proven that in spades, even if Murdock remained evasive on the issue.

Unfortunately, Sgt. Buchanan was gone. So Face figured his medal was revoked on a technicality.

From what little Murdock had finally revealed sometime after midnight, in a moment of what Face figured had been pure weakness, she had told him she was being deployed to Iraq in a week. However, from the way Murdock looked when he showed up later on New Years' day, shortly before kickoff for the Rose Bowl, something wasn't right. A bit of careful questioning when the pilot was distracted had finally revealed that Murdock had gone looking for her at her apartment, but she had already packed up and left. Face thought that was really weird – it was clear the kid liked Murdock, so why the hell would she leave sooner than necessary?

_Women are queer, unreasoning creatures_, Gaskell had written, Face thought. You just never knew what was going on in their heads. All the better, he figured. It would probably terrify even him to know. But that kid had seemed pretty transparent, at least to him, but maybe he _had_ been wrong about her…sure wouldn't be the first time, he admitted.

It also ticked Face off that he hadn't gotten a kiss when the clock struck midnight. Charissa had been playing hard to get, but geesh, at least a little quick little smack to celebrate the Two Freakin' Thousand Six, but…_nada_. That kind of thing tended to set the tone for the whole year, after all. Usually, if he didn't get that first kiss as soon as the clock struck '12:00', he didn't get lucky until the Orange Bowl. So here he was, sitting in Hannibal's office, going over mission specs and freezing to death, as yet kissless, and it was January the eighth.

He glanced up at Murdock, and remembered a couple of years ago, when they'd been stuck in some miserable little hellhole in Moldava, and the clock had struck midnight (give or take a bombing) and Murdock had given him a sharp look and said, 'Don't even think about it!' B.A. and Hannibal had been equally unwilling and Face had had to wait almost two weeks, because no matter how much of that hard Moldavan hooch he had consumed, that sheep never did start looking good. At least, not until Murdock roasted it.

Face sighed and handed the papers back to Hannibal, who tucked them back into his desk.

"Well, we're off to Iraq," he nodded. "Will probably be there for some time, in fact, moving back and forth across the country and around the Middle East."

"Whoop-dee-doo," Murdock muttered. "Pardon me while I do a Snoopy happy dance." Face looked at him, concerned – the pilot had been pretty subdued for the past week, and they all understood why. It was to the point that not even B.A. had yelled at him lately.

"Yeah, me too," B.A. grumbled. "But at least it'll be warm there. Man, I'm sicka this damn' cold."

The pilot stood and stretched, pulling his coat on. Face watched him, and felt miserable that he looked so damned miserable. Poor guy gets a shot at some kind of romance and she just _leaves_? Talk about letdowns. Face had finally hacked into General Banford's secretary's computer and only found where Buchanan was going to be – FBO _Strike_, in particular – but he had not been able to get her current location. He kind of suspected she was headed back to Tennessee for some last-minute family-type stuff, but where in Tennessee? He had been flummoxed to see her birthplace officially listed as a British-registered _livestock_ boat called the _Marie Victoire_ (seriously?) and an address in some place called Baxter Hollow (pop. 489) which, according to the US Postal Service, no longer existed.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning," Hannibal said. He sat back in his chair, not exactly relishing the notion of another tour over there. Sure, he had joined the Army with the full understanding that life in the military meant being told to move from hither to yon, at any time, but sometimes it got on his nerves. Particularly since New Years', when the woman who had bought him had started getting a little closer to him than he was accustomed to, yet that hadn't made him eager to run. _Weird_. Must be old age or some kind of minor fever.

He glanced up at Face, who was still sitting there, even after Murdock had left. "Stop worrying, Face."

"What? Who says I'm worried?"

"You're over-protective, and I doubt Murdock appreciates it as much as you think." Hannibal lit a cigar and shook his head. "He'll get over it."

Face didn't know that he agreed. Hannibal was far too _practical_ when it came to women. As far as he knew, Smith would have quiet, discreet flings with whatever woman caught his interest and reciprocated, but seemed to have little trouble leaving her when required to move on. B.A. never talked about his _affaires de Coeur_, and Face knew he'd never get the mechanic to discuss the matter unless he was strapped to a gurney, numb from the neck down and dosed with sodium pentathol, but then you'd have to actually overpower him and get him on the gurney to begin with…so that was out. Murdock, however, was a different story. Face often regaled his friend with tales of his own conquests, but Murdock had never mentioned even _one_ love affair or fling since he'd known him. Not one. Sure, he had gotten H.M. auctioned off in his fund-raising events, and usually for a nice sum, but the next day Murdock wouldn't say a word about it. It seemed like the pilot was embarrassed about the whole issue. Murdock was _no_ player, that was certain, but surely he had _some_ experience with the opposite sex. Particularly since Peck knew of several women, over the years, that had shown interest in him. Some women find crazy and reckless and a sweet nature appealing, after all.

"Yeah. Sure." Face took another sip of the wassl Murdock had brought in for them and sighed. The stuff was better than even most over-priced latte he'd ever tasted. Laced with a little Scotch whiskey and it was even more delicious. The pot was simmering on Hannibal's little Coleman burner, making the whole office smell of apple and cinnamon, a scent not commonly associated with Alpha Unit leaders, but one didn't have to get all nit-picky.

"Go get packed, kid," Hannibal said, getting up. "If anybody will be worrying around here, let it be me, okay? Scram."

"Can I take the wassl with me?"

"No!"

"Aw damn…please?"

"Amscray!"

* * *

Not even a good-bye note.

Murdock was packing up his meager belongings and preparing to leave. He would put the beanbag chair out in the trash, and leave the Barcalounger to scare the next occupant of the house, but would take the pots and pans, as he always needed them. _Leave the gun, take the cannoli_, he thought, glancing at the TV, which he would also leave behind. The twin bed in the master suite would also stay behind. The quilt was already put in storage, with a note to be shipped to him wherever he was placed again, when called for. He went through the house at a slow pace, stopping briefly at the cold and meticulously cleaned-out fireplace, looking at the mirror for a moment before turning away, feeling his eyes stinging a little.

Damn fool, he told himself. He could still taste her on his lips, still smell the vanilla and almond scent of her hair. Damn, damn, damn…

It had been so humiliating, going to her apartment on New Years' Day, after having sobered Face up with a pot of chrome-stripper coffee, raw eggs and brandy, and extricating B.A. from behind the potted palm, where he had stayed for the whole night, the big guy yowling pathetically about his legs both being asleep. It had been a rough and unedifying morning already, and it had taken enough of his nerve to even go over there - standing there with another little vase of daisies, hoping for…what, exactly? That she'd invite you in? Sit on the couch and talk about…what? Your most recent stay in a VA psych ward? The meds you're on? Invisible dogs? Jesus, no wonder she had run off. _Kissing a fool_.

He replayed the painful scene in his head – the door opening, him smiling and then grinding to a bewildered halt, words turning to sawdust in his mouth and staring at the guy who had answered. At first, Murdock had thought maybe Seaborn _did_ have a boyfriend after all, but the stranger had just been given the apartment that very morning and was unpacking. "Oh, Buchanan, right? Yeah, she left this morning, lookin' like Death on a cracker. Packed up and took her week's leave 'fore she heads off to Iraq. No, she didn't say where she was goin'. Kind of a mean little thing, too. Told me to go to hell, and then said she was already headin' there."

The new occupant of Seaborn's apartment hadn't looked very interested in the daisies, and so Murdock had left, his hands shaking, throat tight, and had dumped the flowers in the trash. He went back to Face's, watched the Orange Bowl, drank three bottles of beer and refused to answer any questions. He had even tried to be cheerful, and when the game had ended – to B.A.'s utter dismay – he had switched over to cartoons and tried to get into Bugs Bunny, but just thought about her and where she was and if she was okay. Had she gone back to Tennessee? For what? What was back there for her? Three Warner Brothers' cartoons had come and gone before he had even realized it, and he'd come out of his daze to Face staring at him, a worried look on his face.

He had left Face's place and gone back home, and finally called Jack. Three rings, and his sister Julia (married to a cattle rancher, three rambunctious kids, perfectly normal) answered. After a brief, fairly pleasant 'how are you' session, Jack was on the line. The man seemed to always sense when Murdock was unhappy, even when he didn't say anything. "What's wrong, son? Are you okay?"

"I'll be all right. I mean…yes, I'm okay. How was Christmas?"

"Good. We missed you around here. You're in…where, again?"

"North Carolina. Fort Bragg."

"Ah. Cold?"

"As a frog."

"Are you eating well?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You sound down."

How had been able to tell, just from his voice? Did he _sound_ depressed? He was usually a much better actor. "Well, you know…the holidays."

"I wish you had come home, son. I don't know why they make you stay up there."

Murdock winced, remembering the genuine disappointment in Jack's voice. Murdock couldn't tell him, even then, that he had chosen to stay at Fort Bragg. It hadn't been nearly as bad as past Christmases – his hopes had been up a little after, even if just in the back of his mind - but the loneliness had still been there, and Murdock couldn't explain why he did it. He didn't know why. To tell his stepfather – the man that had raised him, and loved him as though he were his own son – that he wasn't comfortable at home would be like a slap in the face – a wholesale rejection. It would have been cruel.

Finally, Murdock had the last box of pots and pans packed, with his footlocker ready at the door, and hauled the beanbag chair to the curb. His neighbor across the street – a Captain Mason, married with three lively children that frequently chased each other around in his front yard, which was actually kind of nice – waved at him. "Off to Satan's sandbox, huh?"

Murdock blinked against the sunlight and the cold and nodded. "Yeah."

"Hey, good luck, man. Be careful."

He shrugged, doubting the man knew him that well – when had he ever been careful?

* * *

**ONE YEAR LATER**

* * *

"Look…Hawks," Murdock said, gesturing as he turned the Apache toward the LZ. B.A.'s response was a loud, glottal snore. Face grinned and shifted the TKB across his lap, and Hannibal wiped sweat from his forehead. The other flock of choppers passing by – cold, cruel, black and lethal – turned away from Murdock's Apache and he pulled back, waiting until he got an all clear from the tower.

It had been a year so far. A year in the worst part of the world he could imagine, aside from New Jersey, and he couldn't see leaving any time soon on the schedule. Face had mentioned it just yesterday, while some wild-eyed little murderers were firing at them and Murdock was singing Toby Keith's 'Courtesy of the Red, White and White' at the top of his lungs, to annoy them even more. However, it had been the captain's flawless turkey call that had made their heads pop up, and the mission had ended a lot earlier than Hannibal had expected, with six terrorists all wearing the same bewildered expression.

"All right, Captain, come on down," he heard Atchison over the comm line. "Have a fun trip?"

"Oh, it was right invigoratin'," Murdock answered in a posh English accent. "Draw me a hot bath, Reginald, and lay out my silk dressing gown, hm? I shall be dining _en suite_ this evening, too, if you don't mind."

"Very good, sir," Atchison answered with a laugh. "Safe landing."

They descended into the blinding heat of the Iraqi desert at the height of summer, south of Bagdad. Hannibal was out the moment the chopper was on the ground, bowed over and running toward the offices, where he had to give his report of the successful mission to General Caldwell. Face unbuckled B.A. and started slapping him, trying to wake him up. Murdock sat at the yoke, listening as the rotors slowed, and shut down the engines.

"I hope there's a shower waiting for me somewhere," Face said with a grin, clapping Murdock on the shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'm good."

Baracus was finally awake, and he didn't look terribly pleased, but at least he was able to haul his bulk out of his seat and stumble out of the chopper behind Face. He looked back at Murdock, who was still sitting there, hands on the yoke, staring off into space.

"Hey, Crazy Man, where's my tampanade?" he asked, sounding almost friendly. Almost.

"I'll have it made d'rectly," Murdock answered dully, and finally unbuckled and climbed out. "And…uh…steaks. I'll make some steaks. But I wanna shower first, dammit. I'm covered with dust and I think that little murderin' SOB left some brain bits on me, too."

B.A. nodded and started walking toward the tents, Face ready to catch him if he pitched over, but looking supremely glad that he didn't. He had had B.A. fall on him a few times before and the cracked ribs had never been pleasant. Face clapped B.A. on the shoulder and looked back at Murdock, who removed his helmet and climbed down. I gotta get this poor guy laid, Face thought sadly, or he's gonna really go nuts. Not basket-weaving-at-the-loony-bin nuts, but just _frustrated_ nuts.

"Hey, listen," Face said, once he was sure B.A. was able to walk on his own power. "I'm goin' to the USO concert tonight – some band I never heard of, but they are allegedly able to at least carry a tune. They're playin' classic rock and stuff – you're kinda music, right? So come on with me. I'll…uh…introduce you to some…er…friends of mine."

"No thanks," Murdock shrugged and shook his head. "I got stuff to do. I'll cook supper."

"God, Murdock…stuff to do? Like what?"

"Shower, shave, and I'm readin' Tacitus's _Annals_, so…"

"Are you kidding?" Face said, horrified. "Tell me you're kidding. You'd rather read an old history book than go to a concert?"

"Who kids about readin' something in Latin? Gives me a helluva headache, too. I'll see ya in a bit." Murdock dodged Face's attempt to waylay him and trotted away from the LZ, passed Atchison, who saluted him smartly and handed him a bunch of papers on a clipboard to sign. Murdock scribbled his name a few times and kept going, not looking back at Face, who was still standing there, looking stunned.

* * *

They hadn't been at FBO _Tomahawk _very long, and so Murdock had not had a chance to visit the airfield. Since he was _officially _listed as a chopper pilot, he had no real reason to head out to where the planes were all kept, but finally, tonight he had some time to himself. After a shower, shave and feeding the goats, he put on cargos, a Tweety-bird T-shirt and some tennis shoes and walked across the camp, ignoring quizzical looks from ranking officers and grunts who so far didn't know him and wondered who the hell he was.

It was sweltering, even in late afternoon, the sun still pounding mercilessly down on everybody, with tired-looking little dust devils fluttering listlessly around the arid airfield. The wind wasn't even really blowing, which only added to the tiresome heat. Murdock had the ability to adjust to any kind of weather, and when in these conditions he thought about the North Pole and Santa Claus and creepy little elves (they had always freaked him out) and reindeer. If in frigid conditions, he thought about Las Vegas and the Nevada desert, or at least of summer in Dallas. If in comfortable conditions, he tended to sleep a lot. Thus, in his thirty-some-odd years, he hadn't exactly had many good nights of sleep.

He walked slowly, expending as little energy as possible, knowing he'd need it to get back to his quarters. There were certainly no top-notch places around Tomahawk – not even for officers. His current home was a wood-frame tent, where he slept on a cot (when he did manage to sleep), and when he wasn't cooking, he took his meals in the officers' mess, a largish tent stocked with old picnic tables.

Being an officer had a few perks, but the cooking down there was just as bad as anything the Army could offer, and so he rarely went, except when Hannibal required his presence. He wasn't the XO for the team, at least not officially, but he was the ranking officer and so sometimes he had to attend some boring luncheon with generals and diplomats or with empty-headed UN General Blithery Cowflop of the Republic of Assholonia, who wanted to finally see _actual_ soldiers, who went into battle facing forward, armed with something besides a sharp stick. Salute, shake hands, pretend you're interested in whatever bullshit they're blithering about, and then make your excuses and leave as soon as possible – that was his tactic, and since it worked well for Hannibal, it was working out pretty well for him, too.

Tomahawk was a huge camp, he discovered after several minutes of walking. So big, in fact, that he passed what looked like a baseball diamond where some bored soldiers had drawn a map of the United States in the sand, and from what Murdock could tell, it was almost full-size. States had been drawn in with remarkable accuracy (complete with rivers, stars for capitals, mountains and the Great Lakes), and he grinned when he saw that Texas had been decorated with a can of Lone Star beer, a stuffed Bevo longhorn, a pair of old boots, and a cowboy hat. He shot the breeze with a few of the kids sitting around before moving on. He had done this kind of search several times in the past year, with each move to each new FBO, and so far, he had been disappointed. He wanted to get it over with tonight and go back to his tent and read a boring history book in Latin.

The alley between the two hangars was bustling with activity – pilots were sitting around at makeshift tables (built from whatever scraps of material they could find, including what looked like orange crates and discarded plane parts), talking, drinking Cokes and eating hotdogs provided by some cheerful USO volunteers, God bless them. He recognized a few pilots, who acknowledged him in turn, but he didn't stop by for any kind of chatting.

He paused before entering the larger of the two hangars and listened, tuning his good ear for Southern accents. He only heard pinging of hammers, riveters zipping and coarse jokes. Somebody walked by, pushing an enormous tire, and eyed him suspiciously.

"You belong here, Mister?"

"Nope. I mean…I'm a pilot. Captain Murdock."

The mechanic stood up straight and saluted, and Murdock rolled his eyes.

"What a crock!"

Murdock turned around, looking for the source of that statement. The tire-pusher took his leave quickly, and the pilot headed toward the source of the sound. He finally found it, stood staring for a few moments, and finally took his cap off, wringing it in his hands.

She was washing clothes – scrubbing a white (well, _gray_) T-shirt against an old-fashioned washboard, dipping it in the hot water, yanking them out and scrubbing the other side. Her hair was pinned up in a braided bun-type thing, but several rich red tendrils had come loose and were framing her face, curling in the sweltering heat from outside and from the tub of water. She was wearing a tank-top, fatigues, and work boots, and was having a sharp discussion with another female mechanic.

"You need to learn how to wash your clothes, is all I'm sayin'," Seaborn told the other girl. "I never had a washin' machine, so I had to do this by hand. You gotta scrub, scrub, scrub…none of this twirlin' it around and dabbin' it in the water."

"Where the hell did you grow up?" the other girl asked her, standing there with her hands on her hips, looking disgruntled.

"Tennessee. Dirt poor and self-sufficient, thank you." Seaborn held the shirt she was scrubbing up and held it up to the light. "There. Clean." She threw it at the other girl, who caught it but was splashed by the hot, soapy water and scowled.

"So basically, you're just a psychotic hillbilly with knife skills, is that it?"

"Only during my period. Then I'm just a hillbilly with knife skills, no psycho attached. Unless somebody really gets on my nerves, of course, upon which all bets are off. Just 'cause they didn't teach ya how to take care of yourself back home don't mean you can't learn. You're in the Army now. Cope or get out."

To Murdock's surprise, the other girl – a Latina with a strong Brooklyn accent – saluted and left with her dripping- wet but clean shirt.

"Hello, Seaborn."

She jumped and stared at Murdock, eyes wide with shock. To his surprise, she took a step back, looking around her, before finally drawing her breath. He saw that she was wearing the silver necklace he had given her, the charms hidden in that mysterious space between her breasts. Her skin was still pale and clear, and he figured that she did all she could to avoid too much sunlight and the resulting burns and freckles. Her arms are strong and muscled, and she looked fit and healthy enough to run two miles and beat up Saddam Hussein and both his sons with a shoe.

"Captain," she finally said.

"I take it you've gone up the ladder."

"I'm…I'm a Lieutenant now. Second-looey."

"Good for you."

"You're still a Captain?"

"Eh…I've no ambition." He didn't move toward her. Just stood there, hands in his cargo pockets, studying her. "You look…er…good."

She startled him by dumping the soapy water out onto the hard-packed dirt floor of the hangar. A clothesline was strung up behind her, and he forgot what he was going to say when he saw bras and little panties, along with other pieces of clothing, hanging there to dry. He swallowed and dragged his gaze back to her. _Light blue silk_, he thought. _Lord, You are truly an artist._

"Here to get your clothes washed? 'Cause the laundromat's closed for the day."

"Oh." He looked down. "Well…no, I wasn't here…for that."

"Then…then what do you want?"

His eyes locked with hers, holding her gaze for several seconds, until she finally looked away, her cheeks turning pink.

"About a year ago, I could say that I wanted at least a proper goodbye."

"I had to leave," she said quickly. "I had stuff to do back home. The bank foreclosed on Daddy's property and I had to do a lot…a lot of legal crap and sign a bunch of papers in person, and…and then…well…I had to…Baxter Holler was bein' cleared out, see, so they could fill the valley with some damned lake, so…so I had to get his body exhumed from there by the house and have him moved." She exhaled, as if she had prepared and practiced that speech several times.

"And they were going to fill the valley with water _that week_?" he asked sharply.

"Okay, okay…so…'goodbye'. Happy now?"

He sighed. This wasn't working. "I'm not the one that took off, okay? I went out to your apartment the next day, and you were gone. I don't think that was fair. It sure wasn't _right_."

Seaborn began pinning clothes onto the wire, and she quickly yanked down the bras and panties, tossing them into a clothesbasket. Her back was to him, and he took in her slim figure and finely-made shoulders and the outer curves of her breasts and figured he'd better sit down. He searched around until he found an old plastic lawn chair and plopped down. She turned back to face him, and the wet clothes had dampened the front of her tanktop. She looked down, gasped with embarrassment, and grabbed up what looked like a man's flannel shirt and pulled it on.

"I…just had to go, okay?"

"Why?"

"I told you why."

"It wasn't a very convincing story."

"What do you want me to say then?" she snapped. "I don't lie."

"The truth'd be nice, though. You're giving me the reason for leaving, but not a good excuse."

"It is the truth, and a perfectly good _excuse_."

"Partly, maybe. A carefully _edited_ and well-presented version of both. You could give that kinda testimony before Congress. But frankly, I think you're a damned coward, Lieutenant Buchanan."

That got exactly the reaction he was expecting. Her gray eyes narrowed, and she put her hands on her hips. "You sonofabitch! Don't you dare call me a coward!"

He stood up, forgetting to be calm. No one had ever called him a son of a bitch without painful consequences following, but he wasn't about to open a can of whup-ass on any woman. "If call 'em as I see 'em, baby. You ran off. That makes you a coward. And ever since then, I've been lookin' around for you, to tell you just that very thing. You're a _coward_. A pultroon. A _chicken_." He clucked at her, and she bristled, her hackles rising.

She took a step toward him, and he didn't move. "Take that back!" she shouted at him.

"Nope."

"Take it back!"

"Not on your life."

She took a swing at him then, but he caught her arm and turned her around effortlessly, pinning her arm behind her back. She tried to stomp on his instep, but he knew that move and dodged her booted foot. She then attempted to jab her elbow into his ribs, but he was quicker and moved out of reach while still holding on, and decided to go for the one thing that could immobilize anybody – he started tickling her.

"Shit! Oh…ah…leggo a' me!" she shouted, and tried valiantly to flip him over her, but that didn't work either, and he tickled her again. She made herself dead weight and dropped to her knees, but he knew _that_ trick quite well and went down with her. A bit of scrabbling and growling, some painful scratches on his arms, and some vicious cursing only resulted in her finally being rolled onto her back and pinned down. "Let go!" She struggled, trying to dodge his hands and get out from under him, but he was larger and stronger. When she tried to knee him in the groin, he raised her arms over her head, locking them in his hand, and looked into her eyes.

"Seaborn…" he said softly.

"Let go!"

"Seaborn!"

"Let go of me!"

"Say 'uncle'…"

"No!" She began shaking her head from side to side, struggling again, but he was just as fit as she, and a little stronger.

"Look at me."

"No…let go! Let go!"

"Say 'please', then."

"I won't!"

"Then tell me the truth – why did you leave?"

"Let go of me!"

"That isn't the truth. I won't let you up 'til you tell me."

She was panting, and he was getting a little breathless himself, but for a different reason. He let go of her hands, but she didn't move them, her arms still lying above her head. He reached behind her head and took out the pin holding her braid in that silly bun. He took out the little band holding the end of the braid together, and pulled his finger through the braid, the thick strands loosening.

"_Please_…" she whispered.

"Please what?" He looked down at her mouth, thinking of all the delightful little secrets she held in there, and all over the rest of her. Damn, she was beautiful. Almost painfully so. It was taking all his strength and willpower to keep from moving his hips against hers and scaring her to death. He had a feeling – from the way she was looking now – she didn't have a whole lot of experience with this kind of thing. _Damn_.

"Please don't…don't make me…do this. I don't know how…I mean, I don't…please let go of me, Captain…please…"

"James. My name is _James_."

"James."

"Okay. Then say you're sorry."

She met his gaze, her heart pounding so hard he could feel it. He moved up onto his knees, his hands on either side of her shoulders, and she wasn't struggling any more. Just lying there, staring up at him, finally blinking and pulling herself back under control.

"I am sorry," she said at last, chewing on her lip. "But I'm not a coward! I left 'cause I had to, okay? It was just…just better for everybody, okay?"

He got to his feet, but didn't help her. How was it better for everybody? It hadn't been better for him, that was for damn' sure.

She scrambled up, dusting herself off. Her hair was coming out of the braid, and she struggled to get it back together, using the band to tie it back again. "I really oughtta…kick you or…or something."

"For a week in the stockade?" he shook his head.

"I've been in a few of em' already. They're not so bad. I have a tennis ball to bounce off the walls, like Steve McQueen."

He grinned. "Are you doin' anything tonight?"

"I…what?"

"There's a concert tonight – some band doin' a USO tour. Here to either entertain us or ruin our hearing, whichever comes first. And since I doubt they're the Dixie Chicks, I think it'll be okay."

"But…I mean…you're…asking me…me _out_? After you practically _assaulted_ me?"

"Hey, you took the first swing, baby. So…is that a yes or a no?"


	8. Waltz Across Texas

**This is where things start to escalate to a kind of 'hair in the butter' situation for everybody, particularly Murdock and Seaborn. In fact, the next chapter is going to be very, very harrowing and hard to write**.

A minor change: Seaborn is a Sergeant Major, not a Lieutenant. She's an NCO. Just to clarify. Got mixed up while digging through Wikipedia, trying to figure out rankings and promoted her, besides getting letters transposed and calling an FBO an FOB! Argh…believe me, researching Thoroughbred pedigrees is much, much easier sometimes!

**Songs**:

_You May Be Right_, by Billy Joel

_Your Little Foot_ - An old cowboy song that I didn't know, until yesterday, when I heard it on _Prairie Home Companion_. I liked it so much, and it seemed so appropriate, that I had to use it. It has a pretty, simple tune too, and perfect for a blossoming romance.

I don't own the A-Team, by the way. In case you're wondering or something, wacka-wacka…

* * *

Seaborn was practically the poster child for nervousness.

Murdock got her a Coke and a bag of popcorn and herded her over to some deck chairs, pulled rank on a corporal sitting in one of them, and had her sit down. He scanned the crowd, was relieved to see no sign of Face, and finally sat down beside her, with Seaborn at his right side so he could hear her if she said anything. _Never jumpstart an ambulance with a defibrillator again,_ he told himself firmly.

She was rubbing the little conch shell he had given her, which he found kind of interesting. Was it like one of those worry beads, for her? He was about to tell her to relax when the band tested the speakers and a wave of noise nearly knocked everybody on their keisters. _Thank you, defibrillators_, he thought, rubbing his good ear. Soon, the soldiers were yelling and cheering, and the band started playing 'Start Me Up' with more enthusiasm than actual accuracy.

"Ever been to a concert?" he yelled over the unholy racket. He could see the band, far away, flouncing around on stage and remembered a bouncing stint he'd done at a Stones concert in Miami, during his younger and more lucid days. It had been pretty thrilling, really, until he had realized the Mick was in his late fifties and strutting around, shaking his hips and gesticulating and just basically looking…_silly_. He had felt guilty about thinking that at the time, and had felt worse when he really did expect one of them to finally just throw out a hip entirely and require a walker to get off the stage.

"Only…only a Ricky Skaggs thing at the Grand Ol' Opry," she answered, looking a little defensive.

"Oh, you like Bluegrass, huh?" Find the Bluegrass CD's, he told himself. You've got a few somewhere…oh, right. Back home in Dallas.

"Yes. Does that make me weird?" she asked cautiously.

"No. Should it? Bluegrass is okay," he shrugged. It wasn't his preference, but he liked it all right. "I always liked Bill Monroe and…uh…whatsisname, the guy who did 'Crash On the Highway'."

"Roy Acuff."

"Yeah. Him. But I never could quite get what 'Great Speckled Bird' had to do with the Bible. Maybe I missed something in the narrative. And I like Alison Krause, and EmmyLou, of course."

She covered a laugh and sat back in the chair, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees, but she still didn't look very relaxed. "I never understood 'Great Speckled Bird', either."

He took a drink of Coke and looked up at the sky – clear and loaded with stars – and let his own muscles relax a little. He knew not to touch her, at least not now. She was stiff and jittery and very, very nervous. After their tussle back at the hangar, she had agreed to come here with him, and that was progress enough, and it frankly excited and terrified him at once. But she had taken her hair out of that tight bun and had actually just tied it back with a little ribbon. He kept contemplating that ribbon, and forgot about the concert. Considering his bugged-out left eardrum, he didn't have much trouble tuning out the loud music to study her.

At first, her lips were pursed into a tight, uneasy line, but finally she relaxed her jaw a little and licked her lips, and he wondered if they would taste a little like strawberries, as they had back at Fort Bragg. She had a nice chin, too – he had never liked women that looked like the bottom part of their face had been chopped off. She had high, fine cheekbones that testified of her distant Viking ancestors (in addition to her rich dark red hair) and a pretty nose that turned up just a bit at the tip, which made her look deceptively delicate. She really was like a little bird – small and fragile-looking, but ready for a fight, and possessing a ferocious temper. Even the little Inca doves back home could give 'em hell at the feeders, if necessary, he recalled.

"What?" she finally said, looking at him, eyes wary.

"Huh? Oh…um…"

"I've been wantin' to scratch my nose for the past five minutes. What is it?"

He laughed and shook his head. "Nothing."

The band started on another song, and Murdock was amused by their choice of sets:

_You may be right_

_I may be crazy_

_But it just may be a lunatic you're looking for_

_Turn out the light _

_Don't try to save me_

_You may be wrong for all I know_

_But you may be right…_

"Does that bother you?" she asked him, after the song ended.

"Does what bother me?"

"References to…you know…crazy…"

"Oh. Well…not really. I am crazy. 'Functioning lunatic', they said at the VA. 'Capable of functioning at some degree of normalcy in regular society and active service for extended periods of time, with proper medication and counseling'. But…eh…lots of it was just…acting. Some of it was real. Is real. Will always be real. I'm eccentric. Charmingly so, might I add." He grinned at her, but was startled at himself for admitting to such a thing. Hannibal had often told him that he had a mind of his own, and far too much imagination for his own good, but Murdock had never really admitted out loud that he wasn't _completely _crazy, or that he had ever even been totally crazy or even mentally ill, which was a subject best left undiscussed to him. Being crazy had meant not dealing with anything, after all. In a weird way, it had meant peace of mind. No thinking was required in a mental hospital. Just take your pills, tell them you feel fantastic while they're taking your blood pressure, and keep out of trouble. Escape when you can, though.

Seaborn studied him for a moment, and sat back in the chair again. "Can I ask you what started it?"

"Will you tell me why you left?"

She looked at her Coke bottle. "Okay…okay…so I got…scared."

"Scared of what?" he wanted to know. "For God's sake, it was just a…a kiss. Well…not _just_ a kiss…"

For just a moment she looked at him, and in the fading light he could see her cheeks pinking up. She dragged her boot through the dirt and kicked some little stones away, pursing her lips again. So that's a definite sign of nervousness, he thought. That and wringing her hands and stammering like Bob Newhart. He knew his own stress-related tics pretty well – accents and imitations and pretending he was the Archduke Ferdinand – anything to deflect the conversation from serious topics and his own real problems. Sometimes, he forgot to stop pretending and give some honest answers to the doctors. Frequently, he found himself answering the questions _as_ Ferdinand or Marco Polo or Elvis or Clyde the Camel, and left the session without saying anything about himself at all. After a while, the doctors had started wondering if _they_ were crazy.

"I…I've never actually…"

"Hey! Will you look at this!" Face poked his head between their chairs and grinned at them both. "You found the Hellcat!"

Murdock exhaled, exasperated, and glared at Face, who was looking at Seaborn with sharp, assessing eyes. She seemed to pull into herself, and Murdock knew that this conversation was officially over.

"I found her at the hangars, actually. And you may…you know…_leave_."

Face frowned. At his side were two women – a bubbly little blonde and a sultry-looking, full-figured brunette, and for a moment, Murdock wondered if his friend had actually intended to force him to make conversation with either of them. The man never seemed to learn – Murdock had no interest in a one-night stand, and he didn't want or need help finding female companionship.

"So…uh…this is…like…a date?" Face said, waving his hand between them. "You two are on a date?"

Murdock seriously wanted to punch Face. He glanced at Seaborn, who had her head down, her cheeks getting redder by the second. Peck finally seemed to catch on and stepped back, seeing the rising anger in Murdock's eyes.

"Oops…_aaand_ with that, I will be leaving!" Face said, nodding deferentially to Murdock and Seaborn and backing away, the two girls going with him. He sat back in the seat again and finally hazarded a look at her. She put her feet back on the ground and had drawn her knees together, hands wringing nervously, and sitting up very straight and stiff.

"Listen, it's okay. He's prob'ly had a few drinks, and when he drinks, he gets all…stupid…believe me, when he's drunk, _I'm_ the sane one. So don't worry about it. This is just a concert that we went to together. No big deal."

"This is why I left," she said sharply.

"What?" He leaned toward her. _Just go ahead and get the damned hearing aid_.

"People laughing about it. About…about this. Me…"

"Why would people laugh at you? Or about you? Or…or about…us?"

"Because…because…I…I mean, you…" She looked down, and he saw she was wringing her hands again. "I had better go." She started to get up.

"No, no you don't," he said firmly, grabbing her wrist and making her stay put. "Come on…forget this crap…" He got up and pulled her to her feet. "This is hardly a good place for a conversation, I think. Come on."

"But…"

"Listen, do you want to have another wrestling match here, in public?"

"No…"

"Then come on. I got a good place to go."

"Where?"

"America, baby."

* * *

"Okay, so…Tennessee is nice and long, obviously, but it's really not wide enough for the two of us to sit on, so let's go over here and sit in Texas. We shall pretend Alaska doesn't exist. 'Sides, it's awkward-shaped. Not conducive to sittin'."

Seaborn stumbled across the Gulf of Mexico, nearly stepped on Port Aransas and knocked Bevo over in her attempt to just keep her footing. It was dark, with just the moon providing some light. She could see the Rio Grande Valley in the west, dug into the sand and interspersed with rocks. No water, though. This was a desert, more or less, and dry as her father's wit.

"Now look what ya done!" he reprimanded her, sitting down near Muleshoe. "You just wiped out the whole Brazos River!"

He sat down in the sand, moving the boots aside, and after a moment, Seaborn finally sank down to her knees and sat still, not sure what to do.

"Okay, so…what's wrong?"

"I don't know…I just…"

"…have serious self-esteem issues, yes, that's been established. And you also believe – against all obvious evidence to the contrary – that you are not pretty. You don't have a great deal of experience with…er…dating or courtship or whatever…do you?"

"None whatsoever," she blurted out.

"Well, hell, neither do I, actually. Not much, I mean. What, you think a lot of women are eager to go out with a guy like me? Hello, _loony_." He tapped his temple. "Screws loose and clatterin' all over the chopper floor. I've done that, you know – I've flown planes and put 'em on auto and gone out holding a screw and asking if anybody had seen one like it, as it was kinda…_important_. Nothin' like watchin' a general piss his pants, lemme tell ya. I haven't been on many of those things, either. Dates, I mean. Eaten a few. Horrible things. _Yech_."

"I have never been on a date," she said in a rush, and was glad for the darkness, because her face was burning. "And I've…I've never…kissed a guy…before you."

He forgot about his next dialog – something about insecurity and possible body issues and anything else he could come up with that might put her at ease and make her talk to him – and ground to a halt, bewildered. "Oh."

"I mean, a guy kissed me once. In high school." She looked down, still wringing her hands. "Senior year. He…he kissed me in the hallway…o-on a…a bet."

Murdock's eyes narrowed. Soon as he found out who that guy was, he was going to call a guy he knew in Tennessee and have the son of a bitch killed. Painfully. His last thoughts were going to be along the lines of 'What is that goat doing, and why are my testicles on the other side of the room?'

"On a _bet_?" he asked slowly. "What was his name?"

"Tommy. Atkins. Tommy Atkins." She looked down. "A-at first, I thought he was…was kissing me because he…you know…liked me, 'cause…'cause I had a…." She wiped her eyes, not able to believe she was just pouring all this out to him, but knowing he would reveal none of it to anyone else. "I had a crush on him…but then everybody was laughing and…" She finally let herself fall back onto her hands and stretched her legs out into Waco. "It was just…so…God, I'm such a…a freak. That's what I am. A freak. Twenty-five years old and never been kissed."

"So it was humiliating."

She nodded.

"Hell…" He shook his head, remembering the cruelty of children back home, but that had been directed toward his gawky (at the time), spectacled baby sister Annie, and Murdock had made sure those kids never bothered her again. "And you think people are gonna laugh at you now? 'Cause you're with…me?"

Seaborn exhaled shakily and shook her head. "Cause you're with _me_. I know…it's all so stupid, isn't it?"

"That bastard was the stupid one, not you. I'll bet you, right now he's sittin' in some Barcalounger in a double-wide, watchin' WWF, listenin' to his screaming shrew of a fourth wife complain about his beer gut and the stink of pot in the house and when did he last see the kids, 'cause she's too drunk to locate them herself." He sat back, his elbows in El Paso, and thought about it. "And you are not a freak. Geesh…did it ever occur to you that maybe they were the freaks?" He shook his head and threw part of Del Rio at her. "And why wouldn't I be with you? Geesh…not _that_ many people are blind, baby. So let's see…there's only one cure for all this insecurity and low self-esteem and suchlike. We have to have an extensive, _intense_ program of…building up of your ego, giving you some better regard for yourself, but not too much. Beautiful but egotistical women are uglier'n sin, lemme tell ya. But some ego is always a good thing, so long as you control it and it doesn't control you."

Seaborn rolled her eyes. "And what is to be done in this 'extensive, intense' program, Dr Freud?" she asked.

He sat up again, so quickly that it startled her, and got to his feet. He pulled her back up, and against him, and she forgot to pull away. "Well…first things first." He startled her then by giving her a kiss, letting her move into him this time, her body finally relaxing against his, her hands shyly resting on his ribs while his hands did a bit of casual wandering of their own. When he finally lifted his head, she was trembling and dizzy. "Come on, baby. Let's waltz across Texas."

"But we'll knock over Dallas!" she objected, still blushing at his kiss and hoping he'd do it again soon.

"Shaddup and dance." He started to sing as he guided her, and soon, in spite of her nervousness and occasional missteps, she was soon singing along, waltzing easily from Houston and up to Dallas, back to Muleshoe and up north to Amarillo before stepping up into Oklahoma and Kansas and across to Ohio.

_Put your little foot, put your little foot, put your little foot right there;  
Put your little foot, put your little foot, put your little foot right there.  
Take a step to the right, take a step to the left;  
Take a step to the rear, but forever stay near. _

_Put your arm around, put your arm around, put your arm around my waist;  
Hold your arm around, hold your arm around, hold your arm around my waist.  
While the moon's shining bright and the music's just right;  
And you're holding me tight, we will dance through the night! _

_Put your little foot, put your little foot, put your little foot right there;  
Put your little foot, put your little foot, put your little foot right there.  
Walk and walk and walk, and walk and walk and turn;  
Walk and walk and walk, and walk and walk and turn. _

_

* * *

_"So this is our mission? Really? A litter of kittens with bad vision could do this," Face griped.

"Someone on this FBO is selling arms to local insurgents," Hannibal told them, handing out copies of the spec sheets. "We don't like it, and we're gonna kick their asses for it. Read on."

"Who the hell would do a thing like that?" Murdock asked. He rubbed his nose and read the paper, going over the evidence and the possible leads. None of it looked all that complicated – they knew of the group of local terrorists that was operating in the area, and what they were about, but the info on them indicated they were pretty small potatoes, all things considered. Their main funder, however, was a pretty major mover named Sheikh Khaled al- Murad, who didn't mind strapping explosives to children and sending them into, say, a playground.

"Jackasses, mainly," B.A. muttered.

"So we need an angle on them," Hannibal said, sitting back in his chair. They were gathered around the fire, undergoing a planning meeting. It was late at night and bugs were getting on and in everything, but Murdock had somehow procured a zapper and every now and then it would let out a loud _BZZZZtttt_ and another bug would go to its eternal reward. It made them all feel a little better. Though the arrival of the occasional bat, however much of a noble service it was performing, didn't really settle their collective nerves.

"Well," Face said, sitting back and thinking about it, keeping his mouth closed so that nothing could fly in. "What do these guys like?"

"Money," Murdock nodded, taking a swig of beer – after checking to see that nothing had got in there.

"Yeah, that too, but what else?"

They all stared at him, and Face finally grinned. "Remember what those sniveling little bastards did before they got on those planes on nine-eleven? They went to strip clubs, that's what. They like money and _women_."

"There aren't any strip clubs around here," Murdock said. "And I know you checked. In fact, I think you have an international titty-bar guidebook."

"Gimme a break, Murdock," Face said, rolling his eyes. "But what do you think about, say, a honey trap? Not for the buyers, but for the dealers, that is. No way would I send a girl into that, but if we could get a girl to sort of…_befriend_…the suspects, then she might help us get to al-Murad, and bada-bing, bada-boom, we got 'em." He snapped his fingers.

"Well, Mr Gotti, what sort of girl would want to do that?" Hannibal asked mildly, lighting a cigar and jumping when the zapper snapped, crackled and popped again. He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment before finally fixing his XO with a hard look.

"She'd have to be armed to the teeth, that's for damn sure," Murdock said. "And able to defend herself."

"Of course, of course. And she'd have to tough and ornery, but hot. Really, really hot. These guys – they're in it for the cash and the sex, right? Guy has a lot of dough, he gets a lot of pu-…er, you know…sex, or thinks he should. The suspects on this list are basically frat boys in fatigues. Imagine how embarrassed they'll be to get their asses kicked by a girl."

Murdock snickered and shook his head, shooing another moth away. Hannibal rolled his eyes, and B.A. snorted. Face looked across the fire at Murdock and wondered again what the pilot had been doing for the past few nights in a row. He seriously doubted H.M. and Buchanan were actually sleeping together, but then again, the pilot didn't look miserable any more, and if he was sometimes found staring off into space, it wasn't because he was _un_happy. Good for him, Face thought, and took another swig of his beer…with a bug chaser. He coughed and spat the creature out, ignoring the laughter of his friends, and re-read the specs.

"I think I know just the girl for this little mission, too," Face grinned. He looked at Murdock, who at first didn't catch on. Slowly, however, the light went on and he sat back in his chair, astonished.

"You. Are. _Joking_."

"No, man. It would be perfect. They wouldn't know her, for one thing. They'd have no idea who she was, so we could just give her some kind of fake ID…a press pass, maybe. She could say she works for…I dunno…some major newspaper or maybe an anti-military rag…"

"Same difference," B.A. said bitterly.

"…and send her in to snoop around, gather up some evidence, and then kinda draw 'em in. What do you think, Hannibal?"

Hannibal covered a belch and shook his head. "Uh…it could work, but…Buchanan's got a temper. Then again, she's tough as nails and smart. But…"

"But nothing!" Murdock stood up, throwing his paper plate of chicken a la king into the fire. "No way in hell are we sending her in there. Frat boys or not, they have _guns_ and…shit, Face, if this is your way of…of…I dunno…what is this? What are you doing?"

"I'm coming up with an idea that would get this whole mission wrapped up in one night," Face answered sharply. "We'd have her home by nine o'clock – plenty of time for you to read her a bedtime story and tuck her in nice and tight."

With that, and after calling Face something in Arabic that didn't sound extremely complimentary, Murdock turned and stalked off, furious. Hannibal glared at Peck, who made a 'what did I do?' gesture, and B.A. got up to go find the pilot and calm him down.

* * *

"You kick that tire again, it'll fall off, man, and then you'll have to put it back on. Yourself."

Murdock turned and glared at B.A., who shrugged.

"Hey, fool, I'm just glad to get away from that campfire and those damned bugs."

The captain had been kicking the tire of the team's Humvee, growling and cursing away his rage. His foot hurt, but at least he wasn't likely to shoot anybody now. "I can't let her do that. I can't."

"What'd she join the Army for, then? Tea parties and playin' with dolls? No, man, she joined so she could serve her country, and we all know what that entails – it means we get our asses shot at all over the place, 'cause when the shit hits the fan, they don't call in _Sweden_. And this'd be a service. Right?" B.A. didn't move any closer to Murdock. He just stood still and made his point. "These dudes sellin' arms…they gotta be caught and whipped good'n hard, for givin' any of us a bad name. And the assholes buyin' 'em gotta pay, too. I know you like 'er. I seen ya with her – it's pretty obvious. But let her make the decision. If she says no, we won't hold it against her. She's not in our unit – so she ain't got no obligation to us at all. But Face is considerin' the possibilities. She's a tough little thing…like a hummin'bird, you know, and twice as feisty. She can handle herself. I seen that in Nicaragua – she ain't no wallflower. She's a _soldier_. Army strong, just like us, man, and you know it."

"And what about the possibility of her gettin' shot?" Murdock snapped.

"Like I said, that's up to her. Let Face an' Hannibal talk to her. It's her life, and her decision. Not yours."

Murdock frowned at B.A., knowing he was right. Seaborn would be insulted if Murdock made her decisions for her, and probably furious to boot. "How _annoying_," he said at last, through clenched teeth.

"What's annoying?"

"The fact that _you_ can actually talk sense into _me_."

* * *

When Face presented his plan to Seaborn, she burst into laughter and sat down beside her washtub. Several articles of her clothing were hanging from the line, and she was almost through when the four men walked into the hangar. Had the others not been there, she would have settled in for another of hers and Murdock's 'ego-building' sessions. Of course, one night, it had been an 'Eggo building' session, resulting in a destroyed pile of waffles, a sticky mess of syrup and the both of them laughing so hard they were sick.

She glanced over at Murdock, who was standing there with his hands in his pockets, not meeting her eye.

"You're joking, right?"

"No. It's a pretty simple mission, actually. We have these two suspects…" He held up the photographs to her, and she studied them for a moment before looking at him again. "They want us to catch 'em red-handed, if possible. It's really sort of a vacation-type mission. Simple and easy, and considering they're both somewhat lacking in intellect, this won't be a lengthy operation. One night – you go in wearin' something definitely non-burkha-ish and pretend you're from some dimwit newspaper that wants a story about the Army doing sales to terrorist groups…make the Army look bad, get Code Pink and Michael Moore out here to cause a ruckus, yada yada idiotcakes…and they'll be only too happy to get some free publicity and look like victims."

"Victims of what?" Murdock asked mildly.

"I don't know," Face snapped, irritated. "The pass-fail education system. Lyndon LaRouche. 'N Sync. Listen, Sergeant…"

"Sergeant Major," she corrected him, and Face smirked. "Just a lowly NCO. Weird that you'd be askin' a _pilot_ to do this… sir. Why not get somebody with…more experience?"

"Cause other Rangers don't generally look good in a miniskirt. We need somebody who can shoot if required, and let's face it, Buchanan, you are what we in this business generally refer to as 'a hottie', and besides, you've already worked with us before." He paused, waiting for her to deck him. But instead of looking offended or angry, Buchanan looked mildly amused and only _blushed_ a little. What the _hell_? He studied her more closely, wondering if he could smell that kind of thing. But it just wasn't clear. If she and Murdock _were_ lovers, that was their business, but…wow. She had changed a lot. A year ago, he wouldn't have his front teeth any more, after saying something like that to the Hellcat, but she was still sitting there, looking damned spectacular in that tank-top and rolled-up fatigues. He made a mental note to ask her, later, if she wanted to participate in his next wet T-shirt contest. "Okay, okay…just read this over. We kinda know who they are, and how they operate. It's pinning them down to their own base of operation that's tricky."

She looked down at the paper and read it carefully. "I know that kid," she said at last, pointing to one of the soldiers' photographs. "Brooks – he doesn't know me, though. If he's ever seen me up close, I was covered with dust and grease and arguing with somebody, so…he wouldn't recognize me in a non-burkha."

Face looked down at the photograph of the rather dopey-looking private. "You're sure he wouldn't recognize you?"

"I really doubt it."

"Good. What do you think?"

She looked at Murdock, who wasn't shaking his head or nodding or even letting an actual expression cross his face. How did he do that, she wondered. He had told her about his role in _Hamlet _back in high school, but was he that good at acting? During the past week, she had spent every night with him, sitting on crates in the hangar, talking, playing poker, arguing, and – this was the best part – making out in the choppers. He had never gone further than kissing and a bit of _fondling_, but it had her in a whirl and increasing eagerness for the next level of the relationship. He had taught her some useful Arabic, then a few dance steps (they were now on the Mashed Potato), and how to grill a steak to perfection. So far, however, she had refused to add his unusual ingredients. Only A-1 really suited her on a steak, not that mysterious sauce he brought with him.

Seaborn Buchanan hadn't laughed so much, or felt so _normal_ in years. In her whole life, actually. She had, for reasons she still found a little confusing, been accepted completely. There were no expectations or requirements to change or be anything other than herself, albeit with a better opinion thereof. He had even told her, a year ago, that he didn't want her to change, and still appeared to have that view. But she was changing, and had to admit that it was for the better. Her temper was calmer, and she was becoming more relaxed. Particularly when he was kissing her.

Finally, she dumped the cool, soapy water out of the washtub out and nodded to Hannibal. "I'll do it."

"You're sure?" Hannibal asked her, glancing at Murdock. "The last thing I want is for you to get hurt, and despite what Face says, this does have its risks. You'll be wearing a wire, of course, the whole time." He looked at Face, who nodded in agreement. "We'll be listening in at all times, no exceptions, and will move in if there's even a hint of danger."

"Hey, 'danger' is my middle name."

"No it's not," Murdock said, and she looked at him, but he looked away. "It's not that at all."

She tore her eyes away from him and looked at Hannibal again. "So what do I do?"

"Come to my office tonight. We'll go over the plan and set this ball rolling tomorrow morning." He gave her one of his patented grins. "The plan will come together perfectly, I'm sure."


	9. Brought Low

**RATING CHANGE WARNING**!

THIS CHAPTER (but not the series) IS RATED _**M**_.

So I apologize in advance and will **WARN** that some pretty nasty stuff is happening here and if you're not prepared for it, or are too young, don't read on when the awful stuff starts. I wish somebody had been holding my hand while I was writing it, 'cause I didn't enjoy doing this to Seaborn _at all_.

Also, props to _Broken Trail_.

* * *

"Okay," Seaborn said, nodding firmly. "So…well…it's times like this I really wish I had a girlfriend to talk to, but…I don't. So you'll have to do for now. Ready?"

The camel continued chewing on his – or was it a 'her'? Like she was gonna look – hay, showing only the vaguest degree of interest in her. Seaborn had a feeling that camels weren't going to win any prizes for 'brightest mammals to be found', much less the most attractive, but an ear was an ear, even if what she was saying was going in one and out the other. All the better, she decided. She didn't need any of this getting around.

She had gone wandering around the base until she came across a camel tied up near an old well, and there was nobody around, so she sat down on a pile of bags of grain, crossed her knees, and launched into a one-sided conversation with a camel. Stranger things had been done. Murdock had told her he talked to an imaginary dog named Billy, didn't he? Crazy is as crazy does, and she needed to just talk about a few things. And then she really did need to strike up a friendship with another woman, because this was getting kind of ridiculous.

"First of all," she told the camel, which flicked its ears. "I have a boyfriend. I think."

For some reason, the camel looked a little more interested. Seaborn looked around, figuring someone was there, but the place was deserted save herself and the camel. Maybe it thought it had seen another camel.

"He's…he's really a sweet guy, too. Really…just…a good guy. They're hard to find, from what little I know about the species. And he's good-looking, too, though I guess some girls might say he lacked real fashion sense and doesn't always comb his hair or shave, but…seriously, when he _does_, it's…ooh-lah-lah, you know, and I get all flustered and think I might start giggling, which would just be so embarrassing. Besides, I don't always comb my hair…though I do shave. I mean, really…ew. Can you imagine what I'd've looked like in that blue dress last year? Milton Berle, that's who. You know him? No? Yeah, well, I've seen clips. Scary, dude. Really, really scary."

She took a swig of her beer and rubbed her nose.

"And really, even when he doesn't comb or shave, he looks…I mean, he's…just…sexy. God, I can't believe I just said that, but it's true. Back in high school, I though Tommy Atkins was cute, but he's a chimpanzee with mange and halitosis compared to…" She kicked at some rocks. "But he's tall and lean and he's got muscles and two tattoos and he's kind and he can cook and he speaks dozens of languages and blushes and opens doors for me and…well, he's Southern, okay? It's part of the culture. I'm just bein' all…female or something, right? But anyway, he outranks me. He's a captain, and I'm just a sergeant, but…I don't think there's any rules about that kind of thing, is there? Do camels have hierarchies? I'm sure y'all have some kind of pecking order, anyway. 'Hey, my hump's bigger'n yours, so I'm Head Camel, but hey, here comes a camel with a bigger hump, so he outranks all of us', and since you're a Dromedary, a Bactrian would definitely outrank you, right? They have _two_ humps, but I remember reading somewhere that they're confined largely to Mongolia, so I guess y'all wouldn't cross paths, so you wouldn't need to discuss the matter all that much and I can't believe I just said all that. Gotta say, though, that being nuts is kinda fun."

The camel shifted its feet and snuffled before returning to its meal.

"Anyway, for the past week, we've been seein' each other a lot. Not…_everything_, mind you. He hasn't even asked me to…you know…but God knows I would if he did ask. I'd do it, in a heartbeat. I'm ready. I mean, last night, it was all I could do to keep from just takin' my shirt off and tackling him, because…between you and me…he is a great kisser. Not that I've kissed a lot of guys. One before, actually, and that wasn't a real kiss, but with him, it is." She sighed and shook her head. "Hormones. Lust. I don't know. I'm sure you've experienced that, haven't you? First time for me, let me tell ya. 'Til about a year ago, I didn't even really think about guys that much, except in combat training and I was knocking them over."

She finally heard a non-camel produced noise and looked back to see a group of soldiers walking by, doing a night patrol. They hailed her politely and she saluted, which they returned in good order and walked on, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Not long ago, she would have thought they were laughing about her, but now…Murdock had told her that when she heard hoofbeats, she should think of horses, not zebras.

It seemed like everything she thought, felt or said was measured against what he would think about it. She valued his opinion more and more every day. Not that she didn't disagree with him sometimes, but either way, she wanted to know what he thought, and if he considered her opinion sound. Even if he didn't think she was right, he would listen to her, argue his point, and didn't push her around either way. That was something she hadn't experienced a lot in her life, and it was difficult to get used to. She certainly looked forward to getting used to it, though.

She brushed her shirt off and said a polite goodbye to the camel, which only grunted and kept eating. She nodded and walked on toward her dusty little tent.

Here it was, nearly dawn, and she was about to go put on an uncomfortably tight outfit, walk into mechanic's pool and try to flirt with a Florida cracker named Briggs, in order to obtain information on his and another guy's arms-selling operation. She was nervous, to say the least. Not _scared_, exactly, but definitely nervous, even after Colonel Smith had gone over every detail of the plan so many times she thought her head was going to explode. It didn't really help steady her nerves when Face had mentioned that none of Hannibal's plans ever did work out like he said they would, but yet always did work out just the same.

That didn't sound extremely encouraging to her.

* * *

The outfit was tight. Perhaps a tad too small, and she gave Face a querulous look as he stepped back to assess her. Somehow, a light-blue turtleneck shirt (short sleeves), camel-colored slacks (how appropriate!), and leather loafers seemed _bizarre_, in Iraq, but she had to be decently dressed. The lieutenant handed her a fake press pass, and she rolled her eyes when she read _Mother Jones_. "Really?"

"Yep."

"Y'know, I'm lookin' forward to the day some brave, iconoclastic soul – maybe Oliver Stone - makes a movie about Stalin murdering thirty million Ukrainians, instead of makin' a documentary about what a swell fellow Fidel Castro is," Murdock said, from his seat on the cot. "Not to be overly political or anything. Just contemplatin' the notion a bit."

They were in Hannibal's tent, and she was growing increasingly uneasy. Particularly from the way Face was smirking at her. Yeah, so she filled out the front of the shirt a little well. It wasn't her fault. She had heard about girls buying creams and pills, and stuffing their bras with tissues, to get this look. Meanwhile, Seaborn had prayed for these damned things to get smaller. She wasn't Dolly Parton by any means, but…well, it was nerve-wracking to have four guys staring at her like that.

"Okay," Face said at last, his voice a little strained. "So now, we put the wire on…"

"Couldn't I have done that _before_?" she said, backing away from him.

"Wait, wait…" Murdock said, getting up. "Uh…she can…she can put it on herself. Right?"

"Well, I'll need some help. I can't…can't reach back there…" She knew her cheeks were getting a little pink. Hannibal finally stood up, taking command.

"Okay, everybody out…except Murdock and Buchanan, of course."

"What?" Face said, looking disappointed. "You're serious?" She gave him a cold look, and he rolled his eyes, snickering.

"Of course I'm serious! He's…I mean, they're…oh, shut up! Just get out!" He turned Peck around and shoved him out the door, and followed him, with B.A. finally giggling and leaving as well. Murdock turned back to face her, his expression grave.

"Okay," he said at last, after a brief staring contest. "Lift up your shirt…and…uh…turn around. This tape is gonna stick pretty strong, so when we…er…you pull it off later, it'll prob'ly sting a bit, but you can take it." Numbly, she turned and obeyed him. He expertly reached around to her front, placing the wire on her belly and covering it with the tape, pulling the roll around and firmly pressing it against her skin, without doing any inappropriate groping at all. "Too tight?"

"It's okay," she whispered. He pulled her shirt down again, and she turned around.

"You look good in that outfit, baby."

"I look like I should be serving coffee and donuts on the set of _The Today Show_," she answered. "By which I mean, I look like an idiot. Or at least like Brigitte Bardot's demented cousin."

"_Rawr_…why'd'ya think we got you a job with _Mother Jones_?"

She cuffed him on the shoulder. "Jerk!"

He laughed, and pulled her to him, her arms circling around his neck. She knew she was getting even pinker, but didn't care. He kissed her, tugging on the ribbon in her hair and letting the thick cherry-red tresses loose. "Mm…" she whispered, in between kisses. "Be careful with that thing, Captain. It's not a toy."

"Hey, wait a minute…" Murdock suddenly backed away from her. "One thing – you should get rid of your necklace."

"Why?" she asked, feeling bereft that he had stepped away.

"Well…see…whenever I go into a hair-in-the-butter job like this, I make sure I'm not carryin' anything valuable on me, 'sides my dogtags. That necklace and those charms cost twenty-five dollars!"

She burst into laughter and smacked him on the arm. "Okay." She turned around, lifted her hair from her neck, and waited.

"What?"

"Take it off, goofball. That clasp is tiny."

"Oh…right. Right." He fumbled with it, muttered something in another language, and finally got it to come loose. He slowly removed the necklace and clasped the little charms in his hand. She turned back to face him, and took a deep breath.

"So…what are we gonna do tonight, after this?" she finally asked.

"Uh…" He shuffled his feet. "Well…hey, you haven't seen the inside of my palatial tent, have you? Figured you might have some decoratin' tips or suchlike."

"Let me guess…you have animal prints on the walls…and a bearskin rug."

"No…more like…nothing, really. Just gray and dust-colored camouflage walls and dirt floor, a dusty cot…" He frowned. "Damn…"

"What?"

"Promise me, baby…promise you'll be careful. This is a honeytrap, but…it can get awful rough. These two kids…they're amateurs, and pretty stupid, but stupid often means dangerous. Ever heard of cape buffaloes? Stupid, and lethal."

"I promise…I promise I will be the soul of discretion."

"Pinkie swear?"

She hooked her pinkie with his, and smiled when he kissed her again. "Maybe you'll make me a steak tonight?"

"Yeah. A steak. Steak, a bottle of beer, a salad, and celebratory margaritas. It's a date…we…uh…have a few things to talk about, too."

"Oh?"

He took the necklace from her. "I'll hold onto this for you. It'll be safe."

She nodded, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and went out into the morning heat and her appointment with Briggs.

* * *

"Okay. Good luck, kiddo," Hannibal said, and with that, they drove away. Seaborn took a deep breath and walked across the glum little mud street to the building where Foster and Briggs were operating, politely but firmly ignoring the little urchins that crowded around her. For a moment, she stared at the door, going over what Briggs had told her back at the mechanics' pool, after checking her credentials. She knocked lightly on the door, and was greeted by a gawky, turkey-necked kid no more than twenty years of age.

"You the chick from that magazine? Sister Jones?"

"Yes. _Mother Jones_. Petra Reynolds."

"Where's your pass?"

She held up the press pass. She had sat in Face's tent that morning, watching him make not just that press pass, but several other fake ID's for himself and other team members. Murdock was, according to one of the passes, a field operative for some vast weapons manufacturer in Johannesburg, for instance, and B.A. was a roadie for the Black-Eyed Peas and a bouncer for a club in Manhattan, while Hannibal was, to her utter shock, a sexologist from the University of Illinois. Face was a wide variety of things, which didn't surprise her one bit and made her wonder what he really was, or if he even knew for sure.

"All right. C'mon in."

"And don't call me a 'chick', please," she said, stepping into the room. It was dusty, smelled of cat piss, and was otherwise completely empty. She looked back at Turkey Neck.

"Upstairs," he said, pointing his finger upwards. "Mind if I pat you down first?" he leered.

"I do, actually. You may not. Journalists don't carry weapons. I hate the nasty things." You lie convincingly enough, she thought.

He didn't look pleased, but a steady stare finally seemed to put him off that idea and he finally shrugged and gestured for her to follow him.

She drew in her breath and followed the kid up the rickety stairs. They followed a lengthy but untrustworthy-looking gallery to another flight of stairs and continued up. "We got our stuff up here," Turkey Neck told her. He opened a door at the end of the hall and she stepped into what looked like the weapons cache from hell.

Rifles, pistols, machine guns, _rockets_…they were everywhere. Every kind of small to medium-sized weapon ever used by the Army was in the room, including rocket-launchers, grenades…it made Seaborn feel sick to her stomach. She half expected to see blunderbusses, six shooters, and old Civil War sabers. She believed in the right to keep and bear arms, but this was ridiculous. Two of her acquaintances had been killed by roadside bombs in the past year, and she had an overwhelming urge to haul off and deck this little twerp. He was _selling_ these things? To friggin' _terrorists_? She closed her eyes, counted to five, and turned back to study Turkey Neck.

"This is very…interesting. I'm sure you have a very good reason for having such a large…collection," she told him, keeping her voice modulated – the wire was very sensitive to any sound, so she didn't have to speak loudly at all – Face had told her she could whisper and be heard loud and clear. She couldn't very well start yelling 'So how many SCAR rifles do you have here? Can I see them? Do they work? How did you get them away from Rangers without them playing the Happy Snake game with your intestines?' As if this was _Three's Company_ and she was Janet trying to signal Jack to come in and distract Mr Furley while Chrissy looked for the rent money.

"Wait 'til my partner gets here," he said. "Then we'll talk."

She nodded and looked around for a place to sit. Finally, she found a wooden chair, tested it and wiped the dust off it before sitting down. Turkey Neck watched her, and she wondered if he had recognized her. That could be really, really bad. If he recognized her, then the game was up and she'd have to find some way out of here. Hannibal had told her that they needed to move only when somebody actually said they were selling the weapons. A large cache in an area where insurgents weren't exactly uncommon wouldn't be much of a surprise, and these little punks could just claim they were only following orders or were being forced into it and the can of worms would just get bigger. This operation needed to be cut and dry, no ifs, ands or buts.

Her host checked his watch and muttered under his breath. "He's late."

"Oh. That's…"

The door finally opened, and what happened next would haunt Seaborn for the rest of her life.

Turkey Neck was on the ground, bleeding from a neck wound, clearly dead, before she even heard the gunshot. She jumped up, moving toward the room's only window, not sure if she could really jump out and survive, but…the notion of escape was gone before she could even think it through – the muzzle of a .357 Magnum was pointing in her face, and the other weapons dealer – Briggs - was lying on the floor, a gunshot wound in the back of his head. She eyed the gun in her face, noting that it was still smoking.

"Well…what is this?"

She had seen a photograph of Khaled al-Murad, and he had been as ugly as the camel she had talked to that morning, except he was also missing an eye and the right side of his lower lip hung down too low, as if he had suffered a stroke at some point in the past. The eyepatch did not give him a rakish look, either. She swallowed, and looked at the other two men who had come in with her.

"Who are you?" al-Murad asked her, shooing the man holding the gun aside. "Can you speak, little girl?" He had a thick accent and cold, glittering eyes.

"I'm…my name is…Petra Reynolds."

"Search her."

One of the men grabbed her, and began patting her roughly, pushing her against the wall. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the front of her shirt being lifted up. Before she could even react, the tape was being ripped off and the wire was being exposed. Oh, _shit_…that did hurt.

"Who are you?" al-Murad asked. "I will not ask you again, little girl."

"Sergeant…Sea…Seaborn Buchanan."

He paused, looking at her carefully. "Hm…an American, yes?"

She didn't answer. At least now Hannibal and the rest of the men knew something was wrong. What the hell was taking them so long? She looked around the room, taking in the two goons who had come in with al-Murad. They were big, sweaty, ugly men carrying big, ugly weapons and were looking rather amused.

"You think your friends will help you?" al-Murad asked her. "They cannot get in here."

"You've never met my friends," she answered at last. "And I kinda doubt you really want to."

Khaled al-Murad looked at her, up and down, and slowly smiled, reminding her of the serpent she'd seen in a painting of the Temptation in the Garden of Eden. Not that there was anything tempting about him. In fact, from the vicious, maniacal light in his eyes, he looked more like Satan himself. She tried to stay calm, even though she could feel herself coming hysterical. What if they couldn't get in? What if something was delaying them? What if…

Suddenly, she was hit so hard she couldn't remember if she was on the floor or on the ceiling. She gasped, briefly touching her cheek, and saw blackness around the edges of her vision. Her stomach did a weird little flip, and she finally slid down the wall, hoping – in her last sane, rational, lucid thought of the night – for unconsciousness. But she wasn't going to be that lucky.

"Hold her down," al-Murad told one of his men. They both dragged her to the center of the room, and she felt strong hands raising her arms above her head, trying to force her to lie still. But she was able to kick – she had a reputation for being one hell of a kicker – she had a kick like a Tennessee mule. Seaborn began fighting, and screamed as hard as she could. She heard the sound of pants being unzipped, and then her own slacks were being pulled down, off her hips. She kicked harder, but never could seem to make contact with anything, and suddenly someone else was holding her ankles down.

They were speaking Arabic now, and she had no idea what they were saying, but their actions were horrifyingly clear. It amazed her, later, to think that everything seemed so _clear_. All the colors in the room were bright, so much so that she felt like she might really go blind from the silver and black and green of the weapons spread on the floor a few feet away, out of reach. She could see every pore of the greasy, olive skin of the guy holding her down, and she very definitely could feel al-Murad forcing himself into her, and she felt the tearing and the pain and the sheer, blinding terror ripping through her. She felt the hard hands around her ankles, keeping her from kicking any more. But she still struggled, still tried to claw and force her knees up, but she was tiring, unable to bear the weight of the heavy man on top of her, and he was yelling something in Arabic – she recognized 'want it' – as he thrust himself into her again.

She didn't know exactly when the door was kicked open. It might have been hours later, because al-Murad was saying something to her in Arabic and chewing on her earlobe – perhaps it was some kind of sick endearment – and then suddenly he was being lifted off her by his hair and a pistol was being slammed into the side of his head and he was lying right beside her, groaning. The man holding her ankles rose up, lifting his weapon, but he was soon back on the floor again, on his back with a hole between his eyes. She thought for a moment that she had seen Face, but wasn't sure, because he was out of her line of vision now and she could only smell smoke and blood. She saw something red, and recognized Murdock's Hawaiian shirt – he had told her once it was his favorite, and that seemed so silly to think about now, considering the circumstances, but he did look good in it...

Seaborn closed her eyes, her head hurting, and she couldn't move. She felt numb, but her mind was still running, racing around in circles, grabbing onto any thought that presented itself. Daisy chains by the river. Her father teaching her how to aim the rifle and count while the bird flew by, firing at just the right moment and bringing the bird down. Murdock in a suit, looking startled after she had kissed him, with confetti falling all around her. Soapy water and a Purple Heart and an Osprey…

The man holding her down at the shoulders was also hit with the butt of a pistol – Seaborn heard that distinctive crunch of metal against bone, but apparently her restrainer was made of sterner stuff, because as she was being lifted off the ground by surprisingly gentle arms and carried to a corner, she saw the red of Murdock's shirt again and heard another loud crack as he pistol-whipped the man again. She saw Face step across al-Murad, straddling him and pointing a pistol directly at his skull, telling him not to move, and she felt something wet on the inside of her thigh. _Where did that come from? Did I pee myself?_

She looked, blinking, at B.A., who was saying something to her, but it was as if he was speaking another language, and calling from a long distance. She couldn't understand why he was wincing, and didn't know she was screaming.

Murdock was punching her captor – hard, fast, bone-crunching strikes - as he drove him toward the window, and she heard glass breaking and a scream followed by a crash, and she watched, her mind shutting down, as he moved Face aside and stood over al-Murad, his wide shoulders strangely rounded, eyes black, expression hard and cold and furious. He wasn't wearing his cap, and he looked hot and sweaty, and was breathing hard, as if he'd been running hard.

"You like hurtin' women? _DO YOU_?" he shouted, pointing his gun directly at the terrorist's face.

The question seemed kind of redundant, to Seaborn, but she had never seen Murdock look that way before. The cold, black, glittering rage in his eyes terrified her, and she scrabbled against B.A., screaming helplessly but totally unaware she was even making a sound. She didn't know that she was hysterical, and didn't feel her throat starting to burn, and she didn't know that her eye was swelling up. She didn't know anything at all. All she could feel was terror. It might be all she would ever feel again.

Murdock stepped on al-Murad's wrist, and the terrorist's hand opened reflexively. Seaborn screamed when she heard the gunshot and Face say "Jesus!", followed by al-Murad's scream, a high-pitched, almost girlish shriek, as his left thumb was blown off. Murdock stepped on al-Murad's other wrist, and he fired again, missed by sheer inches, and pressed again as al-Murad screamed, the pitch and volume going even higher, and fired another shot. This time, the right thumb was blown off, with a hole in the floor as proof of the shot's accuracy.

She opened her eyes again and saw Murdock pointing his pistol directly at al-Murad's head, but Face moved quickly, stopping him before he could fire. She heard more men pouring into the room – they were all wearing fatigues, and she knew they weren't going to hurt her, but she started screaming even louder, still unaware of what she was doing. She started kicking B.A., pounding him with her fists, but he didn't release her, holding her gently but firmly, saying something to her, and then to the soldiers, but she couldn't hear him. Why couldn't she hear him?

"…some kind of sedative…" she heard someone yell. "Damn it all…damn it all to hell…damn…oh, God, she's…her leg…blood…Jesus…poor…" Was that Hannibal? She didn't see him. She saw a man with a white armband with a red cross come toward her, speaking soothingly, but she tried to swat him away, even though her arms and legs were hurting now, and something between her legs was burning. The medic was firm, though, and quite strong – he moved quickly, dodging her flailing arms, and she felt the prick of the needle and pretty soon everything was fading, getting gray around the edges before the light in the room started to blink on and off before finally burning out completely and she fell into the blackness, relieved that it was finally over.

* * *

Hannibal watched the medics, a gang of MP's and a number of high-ranking officials milling around, shaking his head miserably at Briggs and Foster were both carried out on gurneys, wrapped up in body bags. He watched as a pair of soldiers dug al-Murad's goon's body out of the pile of trash he had fallen into, and stood still as al-Murad and his surviving compatriot were led out of the building. The ruthless sheikh was still sobbing helplessly, his career of doing much of anything that might require picking anything up over for good. Another group of soldiers were removing the weapons, while a young woman was making a careful inventory of each item being loaded into the truck to be taken back for inspection. _Paperwork after tragedy_, Hannibal thought grimly.

General Davison picked his way through the trash and wattle and stood in front of Hannibal, his expression inscrutable, just like always. He didn't smoke, drink, or curse. If it hadn't been for the fact that Davis was also as kind, honest and fair a man as he had ever encountered, he would have been suspicious of him. As it were, he would have trusted Lee Davison with his life.

"How is she?" Hannibal finally asked.

"We don't know for sure just yet. Still under heavy sedation."

"This wasn't supposed to happen. This shouldn't have…damn it. _Damn it_." Hannibal ran a hand through his hair - his hands were still shaking.

"Al-Murad had six men posted down here?"

"Yes, sir. I take full responsibility, sir. I should have forseen…but apparently al-Murad decided he'd just cut out the middleman today, and we didn't get that intel. My boys took them out, but it cut down on our response time and…God…everything was going just fine. Looked so clean and simple…Sergeant Buchanan was going to get the info and walk out and go back to her tent and eat a steak and…damn…" Hannibal thought about Murdock – the look on his face, and the blackness of his eyes. The pilot _never_ got that angry. Ever. Ticked off, grouchy…but never this furious. It had been terrifying to see.

"She'll be sent home, definitely. Discharged. Honorably. Very much so, if I have any say in the matter, with a full pension…any help she needs. I'll pay for it myself, if need be."

"And al-Murad?"

"Well…let's see…there's drawing, quartering, hanging, disembowelment…which is unfortunately not what we're allowed to do even in this case, because we're the civilized ones…even if I'd like to throw out civilization for a day and just dispatch him. So we'll consult with the locals and if they don't agree to something equally painful and humiliating for him, we'll take him out behind some building somewhere and discuss a few things with him." Davison turned hard, pale blue eyes on the Colonel, who nodded.

"We'll all testify, if that's needed." Hannibal said. "Face and B.A. and Murdock…they all saw…"

"Yes, yes. I know." Davison scratched the back of his head. "And Captain Murdock shot his thumbs off?"

"Yes. He did."

"Good." Davison nodded. "_Officially_, of course, this will have to lead to an investigation and probably a reprimand and…long, pointless attack of blithering from some twit from the UN, at the very least, but…unofficially, as the father of two daughters, I'd have shot off more than just his _thumbs_." He saluted Hannibal, turned on his heel, and walked away.

* * *

B.A. looked across at Murdock, who was sitting in the back of the truck with him and Face, his head down, holding his cap, twisting it so hard they both wondered how he'd ever get it back on his head again. He hadn't said a word since asking that bastard if he liked hurting women. Not one word. It was getting kind of creepy, really, but then again, Baracus understood. What was there to say?

The truck stopped, and Face got out first, opening the back tailgate. B.A. jumped down next and looked at Murdock, who didn't move.

"Hey, man, we're back at base," B.A. said. Murdock stood and jumped off, but he avoided any contact with Face or B.A.. He shrugged away from them both and walked away, heading toward the hangars. Face watched the truck drive away, and looked at B.A.

The mechanic sighed. "Man…I ain't never seen him like that. Never."

"I know. Me neither."

"I know one thing," B.A. said. "One thing – let's don't ever make that man _really_ mad."

* * *

Murdock sat down in the middle of Texas, next to Austin, and struggled to keep himself contained. He was still seeing things with a red veil of rage over his eyes, but the veil was fading at last, and being replaced by something that hadn't happened to him in a long time. He took out his switchblade and flipped the blade in and out, staring at the silver as it flashed in the moonlight. Right now, he should be back at his tent, having supper with Seaborn, talking to her about…everything. Telling her the God-awful truth about himself and all the stuff that was wrong with him, and would she just accept him anyway, even if he was a messed-up nutjob who had trouble with reality but knew something about it just the same? He knew how he felt about her, anyway. Knew it for sure, and was ready to tell her. Lay it on the line and take the risk.

He turned and started back toward his tent, hoping no one would come around to ask him anything. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to see anyone, or hear anyone. He didn't want to hear Hannibal's platitudes about how it wasn't his fault, or B.A. trying to comfort him by telling him he'd let him fly him anywhere he liked, like he always did when he was really upset; or Face fumbling his way through some kind of awkward guy talk, avoiding the elephant in the room. He didn't want to hear anybody tonight.

All he could hear now was her screaming.

He stopped walking, suddenly not wanting to back to the base and his tent. Instead, he started running - slowly at first, in no particular direction. Running, and running, and running, faster and faster, and not stopping until he felt his lungs bursting and he was somewhere out in the desert, far from the lights of the camp. He dropped down into the sand and gave in to his grief. He stretched out in the choking sand and wept, unashamed, with just God and the coming dawn knowing anything about it.


	10. Nationwide

I couldn't find anything satisfactory online that would give me good phonetic Arabic phrases. I did manage to find what I _hope _is a fairly decent Swahili phrase that means what I think it should mean and not something horrible or dreadfully inaccurate (the Swahili website I did find went into such grammatical detail that I got a headache, and so I dug around a bit until I found the same phrase translated on a messageboard and just hope it means what I think). So anyway – spoken sentences and words that are supposed to be in Arabic are in italics, underlined: _italics_.

I've always wanted to have a character reference ZZ Top's 'I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide'. I mean..._a beautician at the wheel_? Really? Dwight Yoakam just tore up on that song. Listen it to if you can.

If Seaborn's talks with her doctor seem wrong or not realistic...well...I didn't look up 'rape counseling' online or talk to victims or experts. I just went with my instincts and will leave it at that. It sure wasn't easy to write, and I've never been through anything like it. I certainly wish nobody ever had to.

* * *

Mopping up operations were never much fun, and considering that al-Murad's remaining lieutenants were scattered all around the region, and were probably already at a flat run for parts elsewhere, they had their work cut out for them. But General Davison had been clear on the matter – find them, catch them, and bring them in.

Hannibal watched his men as they went through the miserable little house they had busted into. Murdock, holding a snub-nosed pistol, was casually kicking over some crates and muttering as he found a copy of _The Protocols of the Elders of Zion_, which he kicked across the room. The pilot didn't usually take part in these types of runs, as he usually just manned the chopper, but he had come in with them this time, and was as calm and professional as always in these situations. But Hannibal saw the bleakness in his face – the light was gone from the younger man's eyes, and that was pretty hard to take.

It had been a week since the 'incident', as it was officially being called. Face called it a major cock-up, B.A. called it something unrepeatable even by the most hardened grunts, and Murdock never said a word. A week of various interviews had passed, starting with al-Murad refusing to talk about anything, until Murdock walked into the room. Then the little weasel had started jabbering, giving up names and maybe even inventing a few, just to get away from the pilot, who had just stood there, green eyes boring into him. The Geneva Convention probably didn't have much on the notion of the psychological effects of a hard stare, but Hannibal figured that look would scare anybody into talking.

So far, Buchanan's name had not come up. Murdock had not asked about her, or made any sign that he had gone to see her. She was leaving for Germany in another two weeks, after which she would return to the States. According to Davison, she had accepted her honorable discharge without any sort of objection and would indeed receive a good pension – Lee had called in a few favors, made a few threats, and had gotten his way on the matter. As for what she was going to do after she was officially released, no one knew.

Now, they were doing a sweep of the town, checking every remaining lead before moving on to the next site. They had caught one of al-Murad's men in the house, in bed with what they _assumed_ was the guy's wife, and had hauled him out while he jabbered and Murdock translated as best he could. The woman was screaming bloody murder, even though no one had touched her and made no attempt to, and the ear-splitting shrieks were getting on everybody's nerves. Face told her to be quiet a couple of times, but his Arabic had never been good on his best day, and she was still screaming and giving him a headache.

Murdock, heading through the bedroom toward the front door, stopped in his tracks, moved his pistol from his right hand to his left and turned to face her. Her eyes widened with terror at the sight of him, and even Face flinched at the coldness in his eyes.

"_Shut up_."

Face, on his knees beside the bed, from under which he had found two rifles and some other small arms, rose to his feet and carried the weapons out, ignoring the woman as she resumed sobbing – though far more quietly now. Hannibal followed the pilot and his XO out into the blinding heat, and B.A., standing guard outside the door, looked at them, eyebrows up. Al-Murad's lieutenant was on his knees on the ground, Baracus's rifle pointed at his right ear. Murdock went around to stand in front of him.

"Ask him his name, and where his friends are," Hannibal commanded quietly.

"_What is your name, little pig_?"

"Abdul al Rahib."

"_Where are your fellow murdering swine friends_?" Murdock glanced at the sky, searching for the right words. Hannibal knew he spoke fluent Arabic…and Farsi and practically any other Middle Eastern dialect. How, where and even why he had learned those languages remained a mystery to them all. He knew Murdock also spoke all the major Latin-based tongues, along with Polish, Croatian, Serb…and a good deal of freaking _Hindi_, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese and could get by in Russian when called upon. He had confessed to not being very good at some of the African tongues, but could manage the important phrases. Murdock had said once that he could order lunch and get directions in any country in the world. He could, he admitted, also get blindly, hopelessly lost in any country in the world if he got a verb wrong.

Al Rahib shook his head, and Murdock gestured to B.A., who put the nose of the rifle in the man's ear. Murdock squatted down, looking the man right in the eye. "_See these green eyes, asshole? The devil's eyes are green, just like mine. I'm the devil's own son. I'm bad, little man. I'm nationwide_. So tell me where they are…_right now_…and I know you understand every word I'm sayin', you disgusting little _worm_."

Face and B.A. looked at each other, and finally al Rahib couldn't hold Murdock's gaze any more. He began babbling in Arabic, then in English. Hannibal scribbled down names and places, while Murdock translated in a cold, flat voice. Finally, it appeared the man was finished and was yanked to his feet by Face and B.A.

"What'd you tell him?" B.A. asked, as the man was loaded into the transport truck and taken away.

Murdock shrugged. "Devils and worms, man. Works ever' time." He walked away, throwing his rifle into the back of their truck and leaning against it, waiting for them to finish up.

* * *

Seaborn was finally sitting up in bed, letting the nurse feed her. Her right arm was broken, and three fingers on her left hand were broken, so she was essentially helpless. Her right ankle was sprained, badly, and still had fingerprint-shaped bruises around it, but she had insisted on standing on it so she could use the bathroom instead of the bedpan. She still had all her teeth, the doctor had said, but she couldn't see out of her left eye, which was still swollen shut.

She only barely remembered actually waking up the first time, a day after arriving at the hospital. It had been so hazy, with the strong sedative still making her eyes seem to cross and uncross and refuse to focus, and the nurse had been sitting there, gently holding her hand and not saying a word as Seaborn began sobbing again. She had just let her cry herself out again, which had actually felt strangely _better_, and she had gone back into a deep, black sleep, with no dreams, thank God. The nurse hadn't asked her any pressing questions – just how could she make her feel more comfortable, did she have anyone she wanted them to call? A shake of the head, a memory of a red Hawaiian shirt, gunshots, and the tears started again.

Dr Gallagher had sat down and quietly told her what she didn't want to hear but had to know. The rape kit had indicated penetration, which had got her started sobbing again, but the damage would heal quickly, he had told her in a calm voice – one he had probably used on other rape victims. He was a quiet, soft-spoken, compassionate man with warm hands and kind eyes, and he had asked her questions calmly, and later she had been appalled and embarrassed at her own stupidity. _Would she be pregnant? Could she still have children? Had he given her any diseases?_ No. Yes. No.

The nurse finished feeding Seaborn the warm tomato soup and sat back, smiling kindly at her. There was no over-solicitous sympathy there, no condescension - just calm and patience and quiet understanding. Her name was Kris, and so far Seaborn knew she was thirty, married with two kids and had a mortgage that was eventually going to crush them all like a boulder would crush an ant. She had jet-black hair and wide, friendly brown eyes set against a pale complexion – she was half Cherokee, half Irish, and reminded Seaborn a lot of the prints featured on Leanin' Tree cards. She had a strong Alabama accent, which was comforting to hear.

"I can't…can't believe I asked…asked those questions," Seaborn finally whispered.

"What questions?"

"About…getting pregnant or…if I ever could…"

"Normal questions," Kris shook her head. "They're asked all the time."

"Really?"

"Yes." Kris put away the bowl and examined the bruise on Seaborn's face. "It's getting better."

"It doesn't hurt so much."

"Good."

"Why did this happen?" Seaborn asked, for about the hundredth time that week. "Why?"

"I don't know, honey."

Seaborn let her head fall back on the pillow, weary from the effort it took to just sit up and eat. "That question gets asked a lot?"

"Only by humans."

* * *

Murdock trailed after Face and B.A., and made an attempt at stepping away to head toward the hangars, where he could sit in Texas and not let anybody near him. He hated having anybody near him now – hated it when anybody touched him, in fact, and had lashed out at Face a few minutes before for just clapping him on the shoulder.

Hannibal, however, wasn't going to let the captain vanish for the rest of the day. He stepped around him, into his path, and stood there, hands on his hips, waiting. Murdock straightened, drawing himself up to his full height, as if he were a rearing horse, rebelling, fighting against his restraints. The stress was showing, and Hannibal knew the breaking point was near. Something was going to have to give.

"Have you seen her?"

Murdock ducked his head then. "No…sir."

"Why not?"

"Why would she want to see me?" he answered at last.

"Because she needs to, that's why. After that, I want you to go talk to Dr Bailey."

"Hell no…"

"Hell _yes_, Captain!" Hannibal shouted at him. Murdock flinched, and over Hannibal's shoulder he saw Face and B.A. turn around, their eyes wide with shock. "You will obey me! I have given you a direct _order_! _Go_!"

Murdock's entire body seemed to snap, as if he had been hit by a jolt of electricity. He gave Hannibal a sharp, correct salute and stalked off, fists clenched, shoulders hunched. Hannibal closed his eyes and turned to see B.A. and Face still standing there, looking stunned. Hannibal never yelled at Murdock, not even when he was at his most manic. Face rubbed his nose, but said nothing as Hannibal shoved his way between them and went into his tent. He and B.A. followed him in and sat down. He didn't take the cigar out of his pocket, as he would any other time. Instead, he folded his hands together and placed them on his desk, staring impassively at Face and B.A., who were so miserable they couldn't even meet his eyes.

"Sometimes…sometimes I actually _hate_ it when plans come together."

* * *

She had been moved into one of the few private rooms in the hospital, per General Davison's orders (which meant a Major recovering from surgery to remove a piece of shrapnel for his leg was moved to considerably smaller quarters), and thus Seaborn now had a view of the Euphrates and more tents than she could count, plus the airfield off in the distance, close to that huge map of the United States. The room had light blue walls hung with those cute but vaguely unsettling photos of sleeping babies dressed up like flowers and bugs, which she suspected the Major was glad to get away from anyway.

She heard the _thump-thump-thump-thump_ of a Huey coming in overhead and she watched it as it passed by her window, wondering if she would ever fly one of those beauties again. She was being discharged, but to what? There was no home back in Tennessee – it was under water, and while the money the state had given her for the property had been pretty substantial, what was she going to do with it? Well, there was college, she supposed. In the past, she had thought a little about law enforcement as a post-Army career, but now she wasn't so sure. So here she was, about to be 'Sgt. Seaborn Buchanan, Army, Ret.', and she had that money plus a pension coming to her that was twice as good as the pay she had received while serving. Apparently, General Davison had some clout, because she was also getting some kind of commendation and a citation and for all she knew, a new car.

Like that would help.

Kris had helped her unpack her things into the bureau drawers. She had spent some time chatting with her each day, getting her to talk about Tennessee and choppers and anything that she found interesting and distracting. She had been pretty surprised to learn that Seaborn knew how to press flowers, so when her belongings were brought to her from her tent back at the base, she had extracted the little kit and showed Kris some of the stuff she had made. Her latest creation had been a framed pressing of Judas tree (_Cercis siliquastrum_) blossoms, and the nurse raved about how pretty it was. They sat on the bed, looking at Seaborn's little collection of her best work, Kris fascinated by the whole surprisingly simple process - all you needed was newspapers, a thick dictionary and about twenty pounds worth of books to pile on. Seaborn had applied each flower, with their common and Latin names written in delicate calligraphy, on paper-thin slices of Maplewood and had framed them against matching mattes. Besides flower-pressing, she was good at drafting and graphic design, except that lately, she hadn't had a lot of time for any of it. Now, she had tons of time, and Kris promised to get her discarded flowers to work on. She was going to give the Judas tree blossom pressing to the nurse before she left for Germany.

The nurse tapped another small, framed pressing of a group of daisies – golden marguerites (_anthemis tinctoria_), in particular, and smiled widely. "This is pretty. Daisies are so cheerful. They brighten up a room."

Seaborn nodded, and felt tears stinging her eyes, remembering where they had come from. She had saved them and had carried that frame with her from post to post, hanging it up before she even unpacked. "I…yes. I've always loved them. Used to make daisy chains…when I was a kid." She took the picture and looked down at it, and saw a teardrop fall on it. She wiped it away and smiled sadly. "I kinda doubt I'll ever get daisies again."

Kris's brow furrowed, and suddenly she looked up, startled. "Oh…you have a visitor." She stood up, and Seaborn's breath caught in her throat as she pulled her legs into the bed, yanking the blanket up to her chest, as if she had been caught naked. The nurse knew that was how the girl felt – stripped and raw and cold.

Murdock was standing in the doorway, awkwardly holding a bouquet of little white daisies with yellow centers. Kris glanced at Seaborn and seemed to think it over before smiling at him. "Yes?"

"I'm…uh…Captain Murdock. I'm just…uh…visiting…bringing some…some flowers…"

Seaborn was looking away, out the window, the sunlight pouring in and making her look almost translucent, and Kris sighed and looked at Murdock. She finally took the bouquet from him and gave him an encouraging smile. "I'll go find a proper vase…I'll be right back." She left, closing the door silently behind her.

"Hi," he finally managed. She still didn't turn her head. Just stared out the window, silent, as though she hadn't heard him. He cleared his throat. "Seaborn?"

Finally, she turned her head and he saw the bruise, and her arm in the sling and her taped-up fingers, and put his head down, unable to say anything. It all just turned to sawdust in his mouth, and he couldn't seem to move his feet. _It's your fault_, he heard the voice in his head say. _You caused this. It's your fault!_

"I'm going to Germany," she said, so softly he almost didn't hear her. "And then on to Walter Reed, and then…nowhere."

Kris returned with the flowers in a glass vase, and set them on the table by her bed. "Captain?" she asked him, starting to touch his arm, but seemed to recognize that this man was a definite 'no touching' type and stepped back. "They're very pretty, aren't they, Seaborn?"

"I'm so sorry," he finally managed. "I'm so…I'm just so sorry. If there was anything I could do…or say…to make this all go away, I would. I would have stopped time if I could have…I…"

"But there's nothing you can do or say, is there?" she asked him, finally settling her gray gaze on him. "Nothing will make this go away. _Nothing_."

Kris stepped back, away from them, but stayed in the room, sensing that whatever existed between these two was as fragile as a newly hatched bird, and would be destroyed with just one word. _Please don't, Seaborn_, she thought. _Please don't…don't do this._

"I know. I know…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I underst-…"

"How could you understand? How?" she shouted at him, crying out with pain as she grabbed the vase of flowers and threw it at him. He dodged away in time, and the glass shattered against the door. Ruined, broken daisies were scattered on the floor, mixed with water and glass. Kris went to Seaborn and began trying to calm her, but the girl wasn't finished. "I'll never be the same! Never! Oh God…oh, God, he…the wrong ma-…please, please…no…it hurts so much…please make him stop…no…"

"You should leave now, Captain," Kris said, pulling a syringe out of her pocket. "Go." She stabbed the needle in and pushed the plunger, but Seaborn kept struggling, and began making a loud, keening sound as she kicked and sobbed.

"Seaborn, I'm sorry. I'm sorry…" He backed toward the door, stepping over the water and glass and the flowers, looking down at them and running his hand through his hair. "I don't have any idea what…I could never imagine…Jesus…please, Seaborn, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He stopped, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead, shielding his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I won't visit again, I promise. I don't blame you at all for not wantin' to see me. If I had a choice, I'd avoid me too. I'm so sorry. I'll go. _Nakupenda_. _Ninapenda wewe_." He drew in his beath. "I promise."

"Captain, _go_," Kris said firmly, looking back at him as she continued to struggle with Seaborn, who was finally weakening, her cries fading as her thrashing and sobbing abated and the sedative took effect. He pulled the door open and fled. Kris touched Seaborn's unbruised cheek. "It's all right. It's gonna be all right."

"Never be…never be all…right…never…never 'gain…nev…oh…James…don't lea…I'm so sor…"

* * *

Dr Bailey was a slight man with a receding hairline and a direct manner, and he told Captain Murdock to sit down as he took a seat behind his own desk. He read through the pilot's case history in silence, his expression not changing at all even when he got to certain _very_ interesting parts, and finally put the folder down. He watched the man for several moments, noting the bleakness in his eyes and the way he was twisting his red cap in his hands.

"What did you want to talk about, Captain?" he finally asked.

Finally, a response: a shrug. But Captain Murdock didn't say anything. Just stared at the floor.

"You have a rather extensive history of mental disturbance, if not outright illness, as well as a remarkable – stellar, actually - service record. Highly decorated, innumerable commendations and citations for courage beyond the call of duty, medals too numerous to count, wounded…four times. Capture during the Gulf War, and again about four years ago…is there anything about this that you'd like to discuss?"

"No. I've talked those subjects out. Chased 'em 'round the barnyard with an axe. It ain't layin' no more eggs for Farmer Freud…or Jung either."

"So…what shall we discuss?"

"She…" Captain Murdock licked his lips and twisted the cap even harder. "She was…was…"

"She?" Bailey leaned forward, waiting patiently. The report was in his files, regarding the incident with al-Murad. He studied the lanky, rather ragged-looking pilot and decided he never wanted to make him _really _angry. He didn't look dangerous, really, but there was something very powerful about the pilot. Not aggressive, but single-minded and ruthless when necessary. A person could be deceived into thinking he was harmless and just 'crazy', but only if they didn't look closer.

"She was raped," he said at last.

"I take it 'she' is someone very important to you, Captain?" Bailey asked him mildly.

Murdock looked away. "Extremely."

Bailey watched the clock above his door, the LED lights blinking each second, and waited. During his perusal of Captain Murdock's file, he had noted that the pilot was described as 'highly intelligent, clever, observant and perceptive. Never turn your back on him - do so at your own risk' – and that had been written by his first CO, when he had just come out of training, almost twenty years ago.

Bailey took the seconds to study the pilot: even as he sat still, he seemed to be in perpetual motion, a man unable to really be completely at rest. There were bags under his eyes, indicating lack of sleep. His eyes were bloodshot, though Bailey doubted that was from excessive alcohol intake. He was thinner than he ought to be – probably around one-sixty at best, but clearly very, very strong, albeit not resulting from physical exercise but pure energy and willpower. He hadn't shaved in a while, so his jaw was covered with stubble, and a mustache was forming. His hair was unkempt and wild. It didn't take a psychologist to see that Captain Murdock was a deeply disturbed, depressed and extremely stressed man. He needed help, and Bailey wondered just exactly what he could do for him.

"And what is your first wish for her, Captain?"

"For her to be happy. Which naturally means…means I'm away from her."

"You honestly believe she would be happier and healthier away from you?"

"Most people are."

Bailey wrote 'self-esteem issues', and noted Murdock's eyebrow lifting. _Observant_, he wrote under that, underlining the word twice. Reads upside down, too.

"Perhaps we should discuss that concept first. Will that be all right?"

Murdock flinched, realizing he'd been caught. He sat back in the chair, but didn't cross his arms. That appeared to please Bailey, who smiled a little and nodded.

"Okay."

* * *

Face had had yet _another_ argument with Charissa, and was at the officers' club, sitting by himself and drinking a beer. He was on the verge of just giving up on _that_ one, frankly, and was scanning the area, taking in the scenery. He saw a few good-looking women here and there, including a cute little lieutenant, but…eh…not now. He wasn't in the mood, really. He was about to get up and go on back to his tent and try to find something to read that would put him to sleep when he saw Murdock walk in, pausing inside the door to adjust his vision to the hazy darkness inside the tent.

Things had been strained between him and the pilot, too. Even more so. For one thing, Murdock didn't seem to really _like_ Charissa, though he was unfailingly polite to her. She seemed unable to get a good footing with him in return, sensing his distaste for her through his good manners, and so they didn't seem to really hit it off well. One thing Face wanted was for his best friend to get along with the women he dated. Particularly Charissa, for reasons Face wasn't really comfortable with trying to figure out.

Peck frowned, realizing that he and Murdock hadn't carried on a real conversation about anything aside from 'Got your weapon loaded?' in the past week. He observed the pilot going over to the bar and ordering a drink – Water? Seriously? – and sitting down at a table by himself. Slowly, cautiously, Face got up and trailed over to him, and nudged him with the cold beer bottle. Murdock looked up at him, and he was relieved to see that he didn't look quite so tired. The bounce wasn't back, but he didn't look like death warmed over and served on crackers, so that was a plus.

"Can I sit?"

"Well…what's your sign, soldier?"

"Dollar sign." Face grinned and sat down. "You don't look as bad as usual."

"Thank you. I don't feel quite as bad as usual."

"Really? I mean…you're…better?"

Murdock shrugged.

"You need to teach me how to do that, y'know."

"What?"

"That whole…step-on-his-wrist-and-make-his-hand-open thing. A reflex, right? Very useful, I have to say."

"I memorized a lot of _Gray's Anatomy_. The book, not the series. Though the series is okay. McDreamy…" Murdock pretended to get the vapors, and Face burst into laughter. "Pressure at the right point, and the hand opens."

"That was damn good shooting," Face acknowledged. "Exemplary, my dear friend."

"I was angry." Murdock opened the bottle of water and took a sip.

The elephant stomped by, trumpeting but uncommented upon, and Face looked away, attributing his blurry vision to allergies. "Anyway…hey, they're havin' a concert here on base in a coupla nights. You'll come, right? An actual band this time. Whattaya think?"

"Yeah. I'll be there. It's time I quit sittin' in Texas - there's nothin' I can do to change facts."

* * *

Seaborn was tired of crying. Tired of being tired. Tired of hospital food and self-pity and the sharp twinges of pain in her fingers. She was tired of talking to Dr Bailey, even if she had to admit that he was helping her, because each session left her drained and feeling raw. She was tired of her nightmares and of being alone. She was tired of not seeing Murdock.

The sight of him, six days ago, had brought up all the horrific images of that night. She knew, instinctively, and from Dr Bailey's comment on the matter, that Captain Murdock's visit had not been remotely intended to frighten her or to make matters worse. He had come to apologize, and she had known, even through her haze of hysteria, that it hadn't been his fault at all. She was even starting to come to a kind of _agreement_ with what had happened.

Well…not an agreement. Maybe she had made some kind of peace with it, at least to the point of being able to talk about it…even a little? There were those four levels of grieving, after all – anger, denial, bargaining and finally, acceptance, and Dr Bailey had said countless time that the process didn't have to come in any particular order, and she could take as long as she needed to pass through them all. He had also given her a list of counselors to contact stateside. "And you had better get yourself into a group, young lady," he told her. "If I hear you aren't seeking the help you will need, I will subject you to Freud's _Interpretation of Dreams_…in the original German!"

It still kind of confused her about why she was _grieving_. It never seemed to gel in her mind very well – she was angry, she was afraid and had to sleep with the lights on; she had nightmares and had to take medication to just be able to stop her mind from replaying the scene over and over again. But she wasn't entirely sure what she was actually grieving about – she knew that lately, she was kind of forgetful. She was afraid to ask him about it, because she thought maybe she would sound naïve or not too bright, or hadn't been paying attention during a session.

It was her last session with him, before she was to leave for Germany. She would stay there, in a quiet and peaceful convalescent home in the country, near Mannheim – not far, Kris had told her, from an Army psych hospital where she had once worked – until she was deemed healthy enough to go home. She would fly from there to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where she would be allowed to rest some more if she liked, and also receive her citations, her discharge, and information about the GI bill, her education and employment opportunities and options, and her first pension check.

She actually sort of liked Dr Bailey. Generally, she thought shrinks were just quacks who were obsessed with sex and cigars and whatnot, but the guy actually was a good listener. He had let her rant and rave and cry and carry on, without saying anything stupid like 'And how does that make you feel?' He had just listened, only asked the occasional insightful question, and even though there was no way he could ever understand, he had given her some exercises to try when she felt panic attacks coming on, and relaxation techniques so that she could sleep at night and maybe not have as many nightmares. But most of all, he was getting her to talk.

Seaborn's favorite relaxation technique had been to hum the song Murdock had taught her – 'Put Your Little Foot'. It made her calm down every time she hummed it, and Kris had caught her humming it one morning and actually _smiling_, so she had taught the song to the nurse in turn. This morning, Kris had told her that whenever she got worried about her mortgage or her husband having to leave base and get his butt shot at, she would sing that song and she always felt better. "I also sing it when I'm washing dishes or cleaning or whatever…drives Hank crazy, but now he's humming it too…he said that now, his entire unit is humming it!"

Dr Bailey arrived precisely at two o'clock, wearing his casual gear and clucking impatiently as she sat up straight, another doctor examining her fingers. "Healing very nicely, miss. Looking very good," Dr McGrath said. "You'll be playin' that banjo real soon," he teased lightly, referencing her accent and love of Bluegrass.

"I think I might try to learn. Or maybe the mandolin."

Dr Bailey sat down and waited until McGrath was finished and had left. She had been allowed to put on her own pajamas, and was decked out in Buchanan tartan shirt and bottoms, and felt a lot more comfortable. Kris had gotten her some bunny slippers as a gag gift, and the bunnies' sappy little eyes were looking up at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Bailey didn't mind these informal sessions, and he put down his clipboard and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So you're heading off to Germany now," he said. "The place you're going has an excellent reputation, and I've contacted a Dr Walter Jenson to be your counselor. He's very good, and he listens, so give him a chance, all right?"

"Okay," she nodded.

"All right." He picked up his clipboard again and sat up straight. "So what do you want to talk about today?"

"I want to ask a question, actually…about…um…I guess this is a stupid question…"

"There is no such thing as a stupid question. It's only stupid when you don't ask. Go ahead."

"Well…you keep saying I'm grieving. But what…exactly…am I…uh…grieving about?"

He didn't sigh or look irritated. He only nodded. "Tell me, Seaborn, did you have a boyfriend before this happened?"

"I…uh…" She looked down. "Yes. I suppose so."

"Were you sexually active, with him or with anyone before?"

Seaborn blushed,. "No. I…never had…"

"I didn't think so. And has he come to visit you?"

"Yes. Once. But…but I…" She felt shame wash over her again, and she thought it odd that he didn't look surprised by her answer. She kept running that awful scene through her head, a hundred times a day – the hurt and shock on his face, his fumbling apology, and that foreign phrase…and the flowers he had brought her, to try and make her feel better, with no expectations of anything from her at all. "I wouldn't talk to him."

"Why is that?"

"I don't…know. Okay, okay…I was…ashamed, and angry, and…"

"Ashamed of what? What did you do to be ashamed of?"

She couldn't look at him. Bailey stood up and moved to stand in front of her.

"Look at me, Seaborn."

She had told him her name. He was probably the fourth person she knew, aside from Murdock, her father and Kris, to know what her name was. She finally forced herself to look at him, tears blurring her vision.

"You are grieving the loss of what could have been…or even what _should_ have been, and in many ways, it's a lot like a death. You're grieving the loss of something you wanted to give to just one person, and instead it was taken from you, without your consent. That loss was a violent, cruel and _vicious_ violation of your psyche – your soul." She wiped away her tears, feeling raw again, and he caught her hands, not applying pressure to the delicate, healing bones of her fingers, but still holding them both firmly. "Listen to me, Seaborn."

She nodded, her vision blurring through tears.

"In spite of this damage to your psyche, you do have a right to reclaim something. The man that did this to you – this _non_-man, this animal – can never touch you again. He has no hold over you unless you allow him to. What he did to you wasn't really about sex, Seaborn. It was about _power_, and you can defeat him. You can grind him into the dirt, shoot his thumbs off yourself, and when you do, you defeat by making him nothing – by making _him_ powerless. When you do that, and learn how to love yourself again, he's reduced to so much dust. That's where the grief counseling comes in, along with the rape counseling. They can help you with it. You have to decide to take it back for yourself, though, and once you do, it's yours again, entirely."

Dr Bailey released her hands and picked up his clipboard, steady as ever. She wondered how many rape victims he had counseled over the years, and if they knew how lucky they had been.

"You'll remember that, right?"

"Yes," she said shakily. "I promise, I will."

"Good." He saluted her sharply, nodded, and left. She kicked off her bunny slippers and pulled her feet into the bed, pulling the covers up and lying back. She closed her eyes. _Something you wanted to give to just one person_. It had been something she had been thinking about, and until her attack, she had actually been consciously considering it. She had wanted to do it, because it would have been something she had really wanted to give, and of her own free will. And even now, with everything in her mind so blown apart and so messed up, she knew that if none of this had happened, she would have finally experienced something beautiful and wonderful.

Suddenly, Seaborn sat up and began pressing the button for the nurse. A moment later, Kris came running in. "What? What is it? Are you okay?"

"Yes, but…do you have any idea what…uh…_'nakupenda_ _ninapenda wewe' _means?"

Relieved that there was nothing wrong with her patient – and friend – Kris sat down, exhaling, and covered her eyes with her hand. "I haven't a clue, Seaborn."

"It must mean something. It must. Remember…he…he said that phrase. It has to mean something."

Kris nodded. "I have a feeling it meant a lot, Seaborn."


	11. Shades of Green and Yellow

Filler chapter. Starts the next arc. Gotta go to bed!

You know what movie her boss is referring to. Right?

* * *

Seaborn was accustomed to long hours. She was accustomed to bad coffee, horrible meals, lack of sleep, long flights stuck in seats designed for three-foot tall Gumby-shaped aliens; endless, dreary drives, and long tiresome typed reports. She was prepared for getting shot at. She was quite ready to have to punch somebody, tackle them, and even shoot them, if necessary. It was all in a day's work – the largest part of her life for the past three years, and it was an extremely fulfilling and exciting job, to say the least. She was never bored.

Still, in the past three years, she had also gotten to like the notion of a good hot bath involving scented crystals. She had learned the benefits of skin cream, nail polish, lipstick, a classy, shorter hairdo, and a good wardrobe of clothes that did something for her figure and showed off her legs a bit. She still eschewed mascara, eyeliner and false eyelashes, because they made her look vaguely raccoon-like and also because there was no brand she had been able to find that didn't make her look like she had pinkeye. She had also found that Vanilla Fields perfume really worked for her own body's chemistry, Herbal Essences strawberries & cream shampoo was great for her hair, and that a light pink lipstick seemed to work with anything she wore. The only things she hadn't had to work on were her teeth and her sharpshooting skills, both of which were excellent.

It was four in the morning, she was finally home, and she was soaking in her big, old-fashioned bathtub (bought at an estate sale in Petaluma and cleaned meticulously until the stains were gone and the lion-claw feet shone like new), breathing in lilac-scented salts and listening to Dwight Yoakam's cover of Cheap Trick's 'I Want You to Want Me'. The aches and pains of the day were slowly melting away, along with the fact that this morning she and six other Federal Marshals had burst into a murderer's house, watched him take his girlfriend's ten-year old daughter hostage, and had finally shot him dead. Seaborn's bullet had entered his skull just slightly to the left of the middle of his forehead, and he had been dead before he'd hit the ground. She didn't relish having done it, but better him than that poor terrified little girl, whose hearing might be temporarily damaged but she was going to be fine. That was all that mattered, and Seaborn's conscience was at peace.

Slowly she dunked herself under the water, holding her breath for several seconds, letting the images flow away into the water as she hummed her relaxation song. At first, she didn't notice that her phone was ringing, but it finally registered and she popped back up, reaching over and grabbing the receiver from the barstool beside the tub. "Buchanan."

"Seaborn! Turn on your TV!"

It was Kris. "What?"

"Turn on the television! You have _got_ to see this!"

Kris had talked Seaborn into putting a television in her bathroom, in spite of the danger of electric shock, and after a while, she had actually come to enjoy the arrangement. Only problem was falling asleep during _The Late Late Show With Craig Ferguson_ and waking up pruny, but it had definite merits. She would watch the news during her evening bath, and do her nails and perform other personal maintenance tasks while warm, wet and relaxed. Only thing she couldn't do was watch TV while on the bog. That just didn't seem right.

"Okay, okay…geesh…" She grabbed the clicker and turned it. The local NBC affiliate was showing live footage of what looked, to Seaborn, like a fire going on at the LA docks. Shipping containers were scattered everywhere, as if knocked over and flung about by a petulant giant child. Sirens were screaming, lights were flashing, and the scroll on the screen was saying something about a major gun battle that had occurred down there, resulting in at least one reported death. "…military police, the FBI, and DCIS officials, local police and firefighters are on the scene," the reporter said. "We are getting information, as yet unsubstantiated, that a group of former Army Rangers called the…A-Team…are involved…the group was convicted and imprisoned by the military some six months ago for stealing…"

Seaborn hit the mute button and almost dropped the phone into the water.

"You think it's the same guys?" Kris asked her, jerking her out of her thoughts.

"It certainly looks crazy enough," Seaborn answered. "What happened?"

"I don't know. I just got home. But you'd think a spaceship flown by the friggin' Prince of Wales had landed on the docks, for all the racket going on out there now. Woke the kids, Hank is standing here in his underwear, griping about all the noise, and I knew you'd be awake, even if you are in peaceful, parrot-infested Belmont Heights, so I called. If it is them, then…" Kris had been extremely happy to have moved to California after her husband's discharge, and now she lived less than three blocks away from Seaborn, worked as a nurse at a hospital in L.A., and her husband was a cop with the LAPD. The two young women had formed a close friendship over the past three years, to the point that Kris's children were calling her 'Aunt Seabee'.

"Well, Prince Charles does have those funny ears. Thanks, Kris. I'll call you later." She disconnected and stared at the screen. All of the footage was being taken from news choppers – she knew the DCIS would never allow news crews down there, and if this _was_ the A-Team, then the CIA would also be there and would refuse to let a reporter in for even a 'no comment'. She had had a few dealings with the CIA, and they were not only an unfriendly bunch, but not likely to divulge helpful information to the public.

Since finishing her training in Georgia and being assigned to the L.A. US Marshal's office, Seaborn had risen through the ranks quickly, displaying excellent investigative skills, aside from a dogged determination regarding pursing and catching criminals that her superiors found remarkable. She had taken as many courses on criminal profiling and investigation as she could in the meantime, and had a wall covered with awards and commendations for her service.

She also had a cat named Stalin.

People got jittery about Stalin. A cat named after a vicious dictator would bring out that kind of reaction, she knew, but as she regarded cats as being bent on world domination anyway, the name seemed to fit. Stalin was a grouchy, unfriendly and hirsute Maine Coon that had never learned that he wasn't allowed to get on the table, and he still sharpened his claws on the couch. As much as Stalin irritated her, however, she had to admit she liked having another heartbeat in the house, and more often than not she would find herself scratching his ears while reading a report or going over files. He had learned how to play fetch and could spend hours chasing and retrieving balls for her, and frequently immobilized deliverymen.

She got out, drained the tub and sat on the barstool in her bathrobe, shaving her legs and applying cream to them before checking her toes – they needed fresh polish. She looked in her vanity for something red, to match the outfit she would wear, and went through the usual morning routine of getting ready for the day.

Stalin stalked into the bathroom, looking indignant about something, and stalked out, tail swishing irritably. She didn't talk to her cat much, and found people who treated an animal like anything _but_ an animal to bear careful watching, but she did sometimes find herself in arguments with him. Particularly after he scratched her love seat or attacked the flowers she laid out to dry for future pressing. The cat would just narrow his eyes and swish his tail, refusing to apologize while she scolded him.

With her toenails freshly painted and separated by pieces of cotton, Seaborn heel-walked into the kitchen and got the cat his breakfast. Stalin forgot his grievance and circled around her legs, rubbing against her and meowing until she put the bowl on the floor. She shoved him away, knowing she would have to get cat hair out of the fresh nail polish, and poured herself a bowl of cereal, but saw she had no milk. "Damn…" She scribbled 'milk' on the list on her refrigerator, held there by a US Army insignia magnet.

The phone rang again and she had to heel-walk back to the bathroom to get it, muttering all the way and knowing it was the office. "Buchanan."

"You need to get down here ASAP," Friarson told her sharply. "They escaped."

"Who escaped?" she asked, turning around to look at her living room – yellows and soft greens, with little splashes of blue, a hardwood floor she had refinished herself after moving in, the crisp white walls decorated with her framed flower pressings and some of her graphic designs and quirky old movie and advertisement posters. Across the way was her kitchen – a surprisingly large room for such a small apartment, painted a darker green, and very cozy and friendly, like a kitchen ought to be. Beyond that, in a closet next to the pantry, was the first washer and dryer she had ever owned.

"The A-Team. I want you here in twenty minutes."

She looked at the ceiling, closed her eyes, and looked at the wall over her bathtub. The framed pressings of the daisies Murdock had given her were hanging there. They had been the first thing she had put up when she'd moved in.

"Yes, sir. I'll be there in ten."

* * *

"Murdock, are you sure you're okay?" Face asked, peering at his friend.

"Head's still ringin', that's all," Murdock answered unsteadily.

They were hiding in an abandoned warehouse, with B.A. standing by the window, watching for any signs of trouble. Hannibal was finally sitting down, admitting that he wasn't exactly feeling too great after his fistfight with Lynch (or Burress or whatever the hell his real name was). Face was the only one in relatively good shape, and he felt sort of nauseated just the same. Making impossible plans, worry, sleeplessness and extended periods of strenuous activity – and the real possibility of actual death – could really mess up a guy's morning.

"We've got to get moving again," Murdock said. "Can't hang around here, y'know."

Face took that moment to lose his breakfast (a bagel and some orange juice, if he recalled correctly). Fortunately for Murdock, he turned away and didn't ruin the pilot's suit. Which was uncomfortable and covered with ketchup, so a little vomit probably wouldn't have made it much worse. Still, Murdock jumped away and crawled to a corner of the room, where he collapsed against the wall, cursing softly. B.A. looked at them and frowned, and Hannibal made a face.

"Sorry," Face said, wiping his mouth.

"And what are we supposed to do now?" B.A. asked.

"Murdock's suggestion has merit," Hannibal nodded. He still didn't get up, but was at least sitting upright. "Long Beach has some interesting underworld networks, and for a few days at least we can probably find suitable…accommodations."

"At what? Club Fed?" Face asked. "Like they're not looking for us now?"

A chopper flew overhead, but B.A. shook his head. "News."

"_Long Ranger_," Murdock correctly him wearily, and closed his eyes. Face, worried that his friend might have a concussion, shook him a little.

"Hey, stay awake, man."

"It's all right, Facey. Just takin' a nap. Just really, really tired. I don't like Kevlar. Saves lives, yes, but... jock…jockeys wear 'em, y'know. 't's a requirement now…remember when that girl jockey got thrown and got hit by that horse at…at Saratoga a few years ago? Saved her life. Musta been like bein' hit by a cannonball. That's how it feels to me, anyhow. But it smelled weird and it was dark. I don't like the dark…"

"I know, Murdock. I know," Face said, and sat down next to him.

The men settled in, hoping to get some rest. Hannibal was soon snoring, and Murdock's head dropped onto Face's shoulder. B.A. didn't move from his spot by the window, and Face nodded to him. He would take up the watch in another hour, and even if B.A. didn't like letting Murdock sleep on his shoulder, Face knew he wouldn't complain about it.

* * *

Seaborn listened to Friarson instructing the other Marshals on their search strategy, and considered telling him he was totally wrong.

A twenty-mile search radius? This was the A-Team, not four amateurs. These guys were the best, and had infiltrated and eliminated some of the most vicious, hardened terrorists, drug kingpins, dictators and terrorist organizations in the world, and had made the impossible seem possible every time. They made the ridiculous and illogical seem not only rational and easy, but even rather fun. Sure, they might end up sinking a cargo ship, destroy a large portion of the LA Docks, and wake up most of Long Beach in the process, but that was likely just par for their crazy course.

Finally, she just couldn't bear it any more. "Uh…sir?"

Friarson, having enjoyed doing his Tommy Lee Jones impression, turned toward his youngest Marshal. "Yes, Buchanan?"

"I know these guys. I would suggest searching further afield, even at this early hour. They didn't become Army Rangers and earn their reputations by being _conventional_…with all due respect, sir. I know they're already moving fast and hard, even if they were all somewhat injured. While they're alive, they're moving…sir."

The senior Marshal studied her for a moment. "How well do you know them, Buchanan?"

"I…uh…worked with them a couple of times. Briefly."

"In the Army?" he asked her. She knew he had her records on file.

She swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Let's talk." He gestured toward his office, and the other Marshals moved out of the way and went to their desks to begin preliminary work. She followed her boss into the room and he shut the door. "Sit down."

"I meant no disrespect, sir," she said, smoothing her skirt and sitting down. "I just…don't agree…"

"Who are these men?" he asked her directly. "Tell me about them." He was an intelligent, fair and even rather kind man, and she had always gotten along with him well. She couldn't tell if he liked her or not, but he had never treated her as though she wasn't good at her job and had always at least considered her opinion. In fact, he had given her some tough assignments since almost day one, and she had proven herself to him each time.

"Colonel John Smith, Sergeant Bosco Baracus, Lieutenant Templeton Peck, and…and Captain James Murdock."

"A colonel with a reputation for doing things his own way, often regardless of the actual rules, a sergeant with a history of insubordination, an XO with a penchant for scams, and a pilot with a history of mental illness. Sounds quite formidable."

She looked down a moment, before finally meeting his gaze. "They are. They are the best, sir. Never, ever to be underestimated."

"All right," Friarson nodded. "This is your op. Go get 'em."

"M-me?" she said, leaning forward.

"Yes. You've proven yourself again and again to be as good a field investigator as I've come across, and since you started here you have helped capture or have personally apprehended no less than forty federal criminals, and yesterday morning you capped a man who raped and murdered six people, while he was holding a gun to the head of a ten-year old girl. I think you can handle this one – hell, you're the last person _I'd_ want chasing _me_. Go for it, kid. And don't let anybody give you any shit about your hair."

She had to fight to keep from smiling. He really did love that movie.

"I'll get them, sir. I guarantee it."


	12. Little Ways

Well, this chapter wrote practically itself, really. I just hope it came out right. It seemed right, anyway. Talk amongst yaselfs…

**Song referenced**: _Little Ways_, by Dwight Yoakam.

* * *

"You do have kind of an advantage," Ripley was saying, as Seaborn ordered a round of coffee from Lava Java's, an offbeat little place she had found near her apartment. She paid for everybody and she and the other members of her newly-formed team fought their way to a table and sat down. The place was always jammed with college students and professionals, and she found the blend particularly invigorating.

"What advantage?" she asked. She poured several tiny cups of Half&Half into her coffee, then several packets of sugar. Her colleagues often joked that Seaborn only liked a little coffee with her cream and sugar, but considering she had had exactly four hours of sleep in the past twenty-four hours, it was no surprise to them that she ordered an extra large cup of the ugliest black coffee to be found, and was now adding more to the jolt.

"You know these guys, right? You must have some idea of how they operate, and where they might go."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, Lieutenant Peck always liked to maintain his tan, so I suggest we check out the local salons. Smith liked cigars, so a tobacco shop is our next stop, and Baracus is a mechanic who did a bit of boosting in his younger days, so it's all the local chop shops..."

"And what about the nutter…Captain Murdock? What do you know about him?" Shore asked her, looking amused.

She paused, remembering all the little things she had learned about him during that week at Tomahawk, when everything in her life had seemed just about perfect. Or was about to be. "He's a pilot," she nodded at last.

"Weren't you a pilot, back in Iraq?" Ripley asked.

"Just evac and transport," she answered. "I was good…but nowhere as good as he was. Is. He has no equal, believe me."

"So you knew him? Hung out with him a little, maybe? Did he seem like a criminal to you?" The youngest member of her team, Christine Magnusson, was a bright-eyed, fresh-faced kid, full of ideas and ambition. She drove Seaborn crazy most of the time, but she recalled being much the same way a few years ago and thus practiced patience. Besides that, she had really amazing interrogation skills. Probably because she loved to talk.

"I…uh…knew him." She took a sip of the coffee, wincing at its heat. "And I admit, he didn't seem like a criminal, because he wasn't one. He was dangerous when provoked, like the rest of us. But not a criminal." She took another sip and recalled hearing, through the grapevine at the base, that Murdock had received a 'stern rebuke' and a case of Lone Star beer for his behavior toward al-Murad, and that the medics hadn't been able to find the man's thumbs. Of course, another rumor had come around to her that the medics had tossed his thumbs out the window and feigned ignorance as to what had happened to them when questioned. At the time, she hadn't thought it was very funny – of course, then, nothing had amused her much at all. Now the image of medics throwing a rapist's thumbs away struck her as perfect comedy.

Funny how three years of therapy with a psychologist who could listen can get a person's sense of humor back up and running again, she thought as she sipped her coffee. Seaborn still had nightmares every now and then, and didn't like anybody touching her at all, but she was _better_, and each step was progress, no matter how small.

Christine pulled out the four photographs of the men they were pursuing. She studied each one, pausing at the photo of Peck for perhaps a little too long. Seaborn eyed her, noting with a small, bizarre twinge of satisfaction and annoyance that the girl didn't linger over Murdock's picture. They had spent the morning going over every detail of each man's past, particularly any connections they might have in Long Beach, Los Angeles, and then the entire state of California. In the meantime, every branch of California's law enforcement was looking for the A-Team while Seaborn and her team had questioned the MP's who had lost the men.

None of them had contacts in the state – Murdock had been born and raised in Texas, and had only been in California twice – once on an Army base, and another at a VA hospital in L.A., until his frequent escape attempts caused him to be moved. Peck was born in (of all places), Texarkana - Arkansas side - and raised in an orphanage in Ohio, and only visited California for the women and the beaches, and little more. Baracus was a native of Chicago and had never been to the state at all until two days before, and Smith was a Boston-bred Irishman, formerly an altar boy with a huge Irish Catholic family in Massachusetts and even more in Belfast. None of them had family or close friends or even enemies in California.

"Well…okay, boss, where do we start?" Ripley asked. He was in his mid-thirties, but relatively new to the Marshals, having switched over from the FBI only a year before. He was a large, well-built man, always well-dressed, clean-cut and professional-looking in tailored suits and leather shoes. She knew that Friarson had put him on her team because of his prior experience, and she was grateful for that, as Sean Ripley's instincts were stellar. Daniel Shore, the senior member of the team after Seaborn, was the opposite – his tie always had a stain on it, his hair was never combed, and he had won the 'Office's Messiest Desk Award' three months in a row. Yet he was also an excellent officer, never missing a day of work and was completely unflappable. Another asset to her little team.

"If you were on the run in a strange city, where you didn't know anybody, where would you go to be safe for a few days, particularly if you were injured?" she asked them.

"Someplace quiet," Christine said. "Where people wouldn't bother me and I wouldn't be noticed. Where I would blend in, actually."

"Quite right," Seaborn nodded. "I put the search radius at sixty miles, north and westwards. I can't see them heading south and into Mexico, or back east. I believe they'll be heading north, maybe even into the country." Her cellphone started ringing and she flipped it open – it was Kris. "Sorry…voicemail," she told the phone and put it away. "They escaped from the transport truck here," she said, tapping the spot. "Ocean Boulevard. I would suspect that if they're looking for some place no one would really notice them, they'd go to the warehouses and shipyards _here_." She pointed to the inner harbor of Long Beach and points west, toward the sea. "There's several warehouses along here, and many of them are empty. Smith might think that they can hide in plain sight – maybe he'd think we'd never look for him so close to where they started in the first place. And that's how we're going to outfox the foxes."

* * *

Hannibal was getting nervous. He suspected he might also be getting a little paranoid, but considering the circumstances, a little paranoia went a long way. It had been twenty-four hours since their escape, and they were still in the warehouse in Long Beach, approximately six miles from where they had jumped out of the truck while it was stopped at a red light on Ocean. He had no maps, no GPS…nothing but his instincts and Murdock's unfailing sense of direction. Unfortunately, Murdock was finally admitting that he might not just have a contusion but an actual concussion, and so he was slightly off. More off than usual, anyway. He was currently talking to himself, or possibly to his dog Billy, which caused B.A. to get agitated and _worried_, because he hadn't done that in a while.

Another problem was that they had been wearing the same clothes for three days now and none of them smelled extremely good. In fact, every time B.A. moved in one direction, Face and Murdock moved in the opposite. Not that Face or Murdock were any pleasure to be around, either. They also hadn't eaten much of anything in almost a day. The warehouse did have, to their relief, a bathroom and running tapwater, but the Coke machine on one side of the building was empty, B.A. having confirmed that by busting it open, looking inside and knocking it over in a fit of hunger-induced petulance. Lately, he had been muttering about steak and tampanade and grilled onions.

Being on the run _sucked_. It made people so grouchy.

Battlefield decisions had to be made. He splashed his face, took a drink of the tepid water and looked at his boys. "All right. We need to go. Now."

"Where?" Face asked.

"Disney Land'd be nice," Murdock said, struggling to his feet again, assisted by Face.

"That's kind of far away from here, Murdock, and I don't think the Teacup Ride would do much for your head," Hannibal told him kindly. B.A. grunted but said nothing, and Face wiped his sweating brow.

"I'm ready to get the hell outta here, too," he said. "We can probably scam some clothes, some food…"

"Right. A car, some money, and some weapons would also be useful." Hannibal nodded. He stopped, and listened, eyes widening with alarm. "What's that noise?"

They all froze when they heard car doors slamming.

B.A. peered cautiously out the window. "Shit! Marshals!"

"Martians?" Murdock said, tilting his good ear toward Baracus. "Oh, man…not Martians. I don't need Martians now! I just got my bell rung! I don't need to lose time too! And the medical experiments alone…"

"Marshals, fool, Marshals!" B.A. hissed at him. "There's a carload of 'em out there…and a Cadillac!"

"Jesus," Face whispered. "I mean, about the Martia-…the Marshals. A Cadillac I can handle. In fact, we could use a Cadillac…"

"Head to the back of the building," Hannibal ordered. "Move!"

The men scrambled toward the back, Face staying at Murdock's side to make sure he was moving well enough. The pilot was having some difficulty with his coordination, but he was doing all right so far. From the front of the building, they all heard the rattle of keys and voices. Hannibal was getting the doors opened and peering out, relieved to see that no one was back there – yet. He gestured to B.A., who grabbed Murdock and all but carried the captain out, with Face taking up the rear and wishing to God he had something to use to defend their retreat. Rocks seemed slightly childish, in his view.

* * *

Seaborn and her team stepped into the warehouse and weren't surprised to see a small pile of debris – some used Band-Aids and antiseptic wipes, and bits of discarded clothing. She glanced back at the building's owner, a weasel-eyed little man with a lisp, who had let them in. He was already marching toward the back of the building, and when he saw that the lock had been jimmied, he looked extremely disgruntled. "They broke in here!" he bleated angrily.

"Have you been here in the past two days, Mr Conroy?" she asked him.

"Naw…been outta town. Wife wanted to vithit her thithter and made me go as part of my punithment."

"What was your punishment?" Christine asked him, and Seaborn rolled her eyes.

"She married me."

Seaborn searched through the pile of debris and found nothing of interest, but had Shore bag it all. The blood on the Band-Aids could definitely prove who had been wounded and whether they were on the right trail or not. She walked to the back of the building and looked out at the trash-littered field behind it. Plastic bags from a grocery store across the highway blew across the field like miserable little ghosts, mingling with used diapers, beer bottles, tumbleweeds and other rubbish and wattle. A few California poppies grew amidst all the crap, and that made the field even more depressing to look at. She looked down and saw the footprints then – four sets, one with a definite drag to it, heading west. She looked around, drawing her Glock, and followed the trail. She rounded the corner cautiously, and frowned when she heard a car door slam. Seaborn started moving quickly then, alarms going off in her head. No…surely not…

Mr Conroy's old Cadillac was backing out, tires squealing, and turning fast toward the exit. She fired, shattering the right rear light, but the Cadillac kept moving. She could make out three men in the car, and as she moved forward, still firing, she recognized Peck in the front seat, but he wasn't looking at her – he was looking at something in the back seat, shouting. She fired again, shattering the passenger side window, but he had ducked in time and she saw Baracus at the wheel. She glimpsed Smith, and heard him yelling 'Punch it, B.A.!' The Cadillac fishtailed a little as it screamed out of the parking lot, but Baracus was an expert driver and soon the car was speeding away, easily exceeding seventy-five miles an hour. She watched as it took a left turn at a fast clip, running a red light, fishtailing again and knocking into a vomit-colored Yugo hatchback heading west, before it sped away. The Yugo, in spite of lousy engineering by drunken Communists, come out looking only slightly more awful than before.

The other three Marshals were running out of the building by then, and she turned to glare at them. "Well. Looks like they were here," she said calmly, holstering her Glock. "Let's go."

* * *

"That wasn't…surely that wasn't…" Face shook his head, having finally stopped laughing enough to start thinking, running the scene through his mind. He didn't have a photographic memory, but he never forgot a good-looking woman, and the woman firing at them couldn't have been anyone other than her. "I can't believe it."

Murdock, hunched down in the back seat, blinking against the light and the wind blowing in through Face's shattered window, looked at him curiously. "What can't you believe?"

"That was…good God, Murdock, that was the Hellcat!"

* * *

"So y'all lost them?" Friarson said, not looking at all amused.

Seaborn raised one smooth eyebrow and made only the slightest of gestures. "I told you, sir, that they are not to be underestimated. I take full responsibility, though. I was following a…gut feeling, really. I suspected they would be in one of those warehouses, after considering how Smith might be operating now, and I was lucky…and then not quite so lucky, as it were. We were caught off guard. The police pursued, but they managed to slip away. They were last seen heading north." She was just glad the news hadn't caught the chase on camera.

"Well…" He blew out his cheeks. "What are you going to do about this, Miss Buchanan?"

"I'm going to find them, sir, and bring them in. Just like I told you."

"Very good. Have at 'em."

She nodded and left his office. Climbing upstairs to her own cramped space, she thought about her own immediate reaction to having _not_ seen Murdock in the Cadillac – she had, for the briefest of moments, worried that he was badly injured and left behind…or worse. A thorough search of the warehouse and the others around it, as well as the fields, had garnered no sign of the pilot. The bloodied Band-Aids confirmed that they were from Baracus and Smith – there were no blood traces from Peck or Murdock, so evidently neither of them were wounded, or at least not seriously. She had examined the bag of debris and found a blue and gray silk tie, and it had splatters of ketchup on it that she had initially thought was blood. Either way, all evidence pointed to Murdock being alive and traveling with the A-Team. For that, she was immensely but quietly relieved.

She went into her office, collected her mail from her secretary, and sat at her desk. The files on the A-Team were still on her desk, and she moved three of them aside, leaving Murdock's in the middle of her desk. She opened it, looked at his photograph, and took a slow, deep breath. She remembered his smile and his green eyes – a color she had matched, maybe not completely subconsciously, in her kitchen – and his never-combed hair. His native Texas accent, and the accents he could adopt when required or if he just felt like it. His calloused hand on her cheek, and his arms around her waist, and his kiss…

"Miss Buchanan, there's a call for you. Line two."

"Who is it?" she asked, jerked out of her thoughts and knowing her cheeks were pink. Carmen didn't seem to notice, but then Carmen had a tendency to not notice earthquakes.

"I dunno. Some guy." She shrugged, looking annoyed at having to answer such a question, as if she was supposed to be helpful or something.

Seaborn snatched up the line, glaring at her secretary's retreating form. "Buchanan," she said sharply, still looking at the photograph.

"Hey, baby."

She jerked to her feet, gasping, in shock. "How…"

"Hey, listen, I don't like bein' shot at all that much, and I know it takes about…three minutes to trace a call? But then this is just a payphone, so by the time y'all get out here, we'll be long gone. Just wanted you to know we're all still alive and bear you no ill will. Fact is, I'm rather glad to know you're okay. Face said you looked good in that black mini skirt. I'm imaginin' it right now." His accent was as strong as ever.

"How did you get this number?" she asked, gesturing wildly to Carmen, who stared at her as though she had finally just _snapped_. Seaborn waved her arm, snapping her fingers and fighting off a desire to smack her secretary with the phone and strangle her with the chord. Where was Peterson? She needed Peterson to hit the tracer and get LAPD out there _now_. The little jerk was probably shooting the breeze at the damned cooler again. She looked at her Glock on the desk beside the file. No. Can't just shoot a fellow Marshal…that wouldn't play well on the news.

"Same way you nearly got me, baby. _You've got your little ways to hurt me…you know just how to tear me up...leave me in small pieces…on the ground_," he sang. "I got 'em, too, baby. And a phone book, with numbers for local and state government entities, and then it was just a narrowing-down process and punching the right series of numbers. Press 'nine if you don't speak German', 'zero' several times if you're OCD', and so on, and pretending I was calling from the FBI and…_voila_! I had your number! So easy! How ya doin', baby? Face swore up an' down it was you shootin' at us. I had to make sure."

"Murdock…" she said. "I am a United States Marshal. I am going to have to catch you and arrest you. I _will_."

"Operative word bein' _catch_. Bye-bye, baby!"

The line went dead, and she was left standing there, holding the phone, her heart pounding, her cheeks pink, her mind whirling. She slammed the receiver down and grabbed her jacket, rushing out of her office and heading back downstairs. Friarson looked up at her as he exited his office, and raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"I just had contact."

"With…?"

"The A-Team…Captain…Captain Murdock just called me."

"And why would he call you?" Friarson asked her, looking confused.

"That's not important. There won't be a trace – he was calling from a payphone, but he's…they're still in the area, I'm sure it was him…I know it was him." She would know that voice anywhere. She heard it in her dreams.

"All right. Get your team together. Police are looking for the car, obviously, and the news stations are showing their pictures every few minutes…I'm sure they will be flushed out soon enough."

"It won't be that easy, sir. You can guarantee that. But I'll be damned if I don't catch them." She squared her shoulders and resolved to _focus_ as she headed for the doors. "_I will_."

* * *

Face was pacing, frantic and not quite able to believe that Murdock would _insist_ on calling her. They were waiting at the stolen Caddy, B.A. having removed its plates and replaced them with tags from a car they had found broken down on the side of the road. Hannibal was leaning against the car, ankles crossed and looking remarkably calm considering what a mess they were in.

As soon as he hung up, Murdock came bouncing cheerfully over the trash and weeds, glancing back at the glum little empty lot where the phone stood, lonely and unloved. He looked happy – a little manic, maybe, but _happy_. Then again, Murdock could be happy getting jolts of electroshock therapy, or crawling across the desert with buzzards circling overhead, or somehow managing to land a chopper when its back rotor had been knocked out.

"Well…and what the hell did that accomplish?" Face snapped at him.

"I feel a lot better, Colonel," Murdock said, the light back in his eyes. "Bell stopped ringin'. I'm ready to rumble, man."

"I figured all you needed was some rest, Captain," Hannibal said, giving his shoulder a warm squeeze. He opened the back door and Murdock piled in, cackling merrily. Face stared at Hannibal.

"If it had been me," he said, jaw clenched, "You would have said not to engage. He engages and…it's okay?"

"Yep."

"Damn it, Hannibal!"

"Get in the car, Face. Just relax. It's fine."

Face got in, glaring at Murdock, who was looking much more chipper. Hannibal ordered B.A. to hit the gas, and they pulled out and continued north. They still didn't have any money, and they were all still hungry, but the road was rising up before them and Hannibal was starting to form a plan. The smile forming on his lips was evidence enough of that, and so maybe he could at least relax a little. At least until the Hellcat starting shooting at them again.


	13. Guns and Daisies

**Yes, yes, I know. The chase scene here has strong elements of **_**The Fugitive**_** in it. But it just seemed to work a lot better than what I had originally planned, and came together rather smoothly just the same and actually seemed to fit right in with where I'm going. More stuff later, including a close-up conversation between Murdock and Seaborn that promises to get rather…uh…**_**heated**_**. Have patience, Grasshoppers!**

**

* * *

**"Are you _serious_?" Face yelled at Hannibal. "Are you freaking serious? He can't be serious. Tell me he's not serious!" he turned to B.A., who was gobbling down a ham and cheese sandwich and thus offered no comment. Face whirled around to look at Murdock, who was chewing thoughtfully on a piece of beef jerky.

"Calm down, Face. This is an excellent idea, in my not-so-humble opinion. We can't be seen approaching Sosa under any circumstances, but this way we _can_ contact her…in a way…and in the process, we might even be able to get some information about Lynch…or Burress…or whatever his real name is." He lit his last cigar and glanced at Murdock, who shifted uncomfortably and withdrew into himself a little, apparently still having some reservations about the plan. "His testimony will be the…er…lynchpin in this whole mess."

"Oh, oh, very very _punny_!" Face snapped, his agitation growing. "And what if she won't cooperate?"

"Why would she not cooperate?" Hannibal said, giving Murdock another significant look.

They were camped out at a small park outside Long Beach, taking a spot near a small creek. Face had scammed food for them – none of them wanted to know where or how he had got it all – but they were still wearing the same clothes from three days before. Murdock had muttered about the poor options among what the conman had brought, but they had all tucked into their meals eagerly just the same. The pilot had perked up considerably since their run-in with Seaborn at the warehouse, and if his meal was hardly filling, it was at least giving him the energy he needed.

"She was shooting at us, wasn't she?" Face asked. "She doesn't seem like she's got many qualms about putting holes through our bodies. And she certainly didn't shoot out that window on accident, either. She was aimin' for my _skull._"

"She put holes in the Cadillac, Facey," Murdock said. "Not us. 'sides, she never did like you much."

"Oh, well, that makes all the difference, doesn't it?" Face snarled, disgusted. "Okay. So how do we run this? I'll have to find some means of getting in there and out, without being noticed, and we've also got to get some supplies and…"

"We need somethin' better'n that damned Caddy. It's makin' noises," B.A. said, finally finished with his fourth sandwich of the night. "We need to get better transportation." He looked around for a moment and finally nodded. "I know a guy, in Long Beach, who might have a truck or a van…he owes me a few favors, from back in Mexico."

"Why do I get the feeling the main thing he owes you is his life? As in, you decided not to kill him after all?" Murdock asked mildly. B.A. snickered and shrugged modestly.

"Well, there's where we start. We go back to Long Beach and let B.A. find us a better car. We lay low, keep out of sight, and in the meantime, we will obtain some cash and some clothes and weapons. Murdock, you will have a very important task on hand. A delivery, to be exact."

The pilot looked uneasy. "Uh…a delivery, sir?"

"Don't worry. You'll do fine." Hannibal grinned. "In fact, you'll be…unbelievable."

* * *

Seaborn met Kris and her two children for lunch at Parker's Lighthouse, their favorite restaurant in Long Beach, and the two women sat on the deck – under the eaves, to avoid too much sun - looking across the water at the Queen Mary, while the kids ate their sundaes and bickered. It amazed Seaborn that Kris could so easily tune them out when they were being annoying. She doubted she could do that. She got annoyed at _commercials_, for God's sake. She loved Isabella and Jake dearly, but just one day of babysitting them left her frazzled and glancing at her Glock.

"So have you caught the A-Team yet?" Kris asked her, smiling into her napkin.

"No. Not yet. But we've determined that they haven't left the city yet. I'm surprised that they're still here, actually. And I will catch them."

Kris raised her eyebrows, but made no comment. She had never seen the younger woman quite so on edge, but knew not to bring up _that_ issue. Seaborn had never so much as said his name since that day back at the hospital in Iraq, and she didn't expect her to pour out her heart, either. Seaborn was her best friend, but she rarely revealed her innermost thoughts, and it was never wise to try to pry things out of her. Still, a woman doesn't throw a vase of daisies at a guy for nothing, and Kris knew there was a lot more to that than Seaborn would ever admit. Even more, the day she had helped Seaborn move into her apartment in Belmont Heights, she had noticed the framed pressings of daisies hanging over the bathtub. The connection hadn't been _that_ hard to make.

"I'm sure you will," she finally said, nodding. "Isabella, stop kicking your brother," she said firmly.

"He started it!" Isabella squeaked.

"Jake, don't sit so close to your sister, or she'll kick you," Kris answered sensibly. "So…anyway…Hank is saying he wants another kid. Can you believe that?" She looked at her two squabbling children and sighed. "It's a lot of fun making them, sure, but…eh…we're well settled, we're both making good money in spite of the economy, and we're young, so…" She shrugged and sat back in her seat, glancing enviously at Seaborn's trim figure. The girl never gained an ounce and could pack away a ribeye steak and a banana split without blinking an eye.

"Do you want another kid?" Seaborn asked.

"Well…like I said, it's fun making them." She lowered her voice, glancing at the kids, who had gone over to the rails of the deck to look at the huge ocean liner. The Queen Mary's lights were turning on, blinking in the twilight. "We've been married almost ten years now, and the sex is actually better now than it was at first. Then again, he knows all the turns on the dial of my lock, if you know what I mean. Two to the left, four to the right, six to the left, five to the right, seven to the left and…oooo…" She rolled her eyes into the back of her head and made a delighted shuddering sound, and Seaborn blushed.

"I really wouldn't know about that."

Kris smiled and nodded. "You will some day. Mark my words. Hey, good men are out there. It's just the process of scrubbing them down and dressing them up that's a little tricky. I mean, seriously – Hank hangs his underwear on the doorknob, and leaves whiskers in the sink, and when he makes onion dip for his football parties, the house stinks for a week, but…he's also a wonderful husband and a great father, and he'd die for us in a snap if necessary. Pays the bills, fixes stuff around the house, and doesn't yell or hit under any circumstances. So I pick up the underwear, clean out the sink, put the lid down and see no good reason to complain."

"Mommy, let's go down to the beach!" Isabella said, tugging on Kris's arm. "Please? I wanna look for sand dollars!" Jake immediately joined in on the begging, and Kris rolled her eyes before giving in.

"Wanna come along?" she asked, handing over cash to pay her part of the bill.

"I'll beg off this time," Seaborn said, shaking her head. She was not into beaches, even though she lived about five blocks from one. She only swam in indoor pools, knowing that just a few minutes in the sun left her scorched, and she really didn't like getting sand in her clothes. "I really should get home. I've got a cat to feed and lots of files to read over…"

"Oh, come on Seaborn!" Kris said, exasperated. "When are you ever going to take a break?"

"When there's no more federal fugitives to chase down, I suppose." She bent down and gave the kids hugs and kisses goodbye, and hugged Kris as well. The young woman and her children climbed down the steps and walked out toward the beach, laughing and joking with each other. Seaborn watched them leave, feeling that all-too-familiar twinge of envy and loneliness at the sight of such a loving, close-knit family. They always invited her over for holidays, as well as meals and special occasions and football games, and treated her as though she was kin, but she still longed – secretly and quietly – for someone of her own to go home to, rather than just a cat named after a mass murderer. Of course, that would involve getting involved with a guy, and him having a clue as to how to deal with her…

The valet brought her car around and Seaborn drove home, listening to her favorite Alison Krause CD. It was nine o'clock on a Friday night, and plenty of people were out and about. The bars and restaurants were overflowing, but she had no desire for alcohol – she rarely drank anything more than a beer or two at a time any more, and only rarely at that. Watching a flock of drunken college students stagger across the intersection in front of her, she knew why she eschewed the whole notion of getting pissed any more. Having a good time was one thing – remembering the good time was another entirely.

She knew she was, however, a workaholic. It wasn't as though she didn't recognize the signs. She was at the office early, stayed late, lived on bad coffee and fast food, and got little sleep during the more involved manhunts she was assigned to. When each assignment was finally over and the criminal was behind bars, she would crash and sleep for days. She still jogged six miles every morning, and continued with self-defense and karate (she was a black belt, finally), but she knew the signs of burnout when she saw them in other people and yet continued to deny she was experiencing the same symptoms.

Seaborn loved her work. She loved the thrill of outwitting a person who thought they were smarter than everybody else. She loved the thrill of the chase and the sense of accomplishment of catching a dangerous criminal – it was particularly gratifying if that person had ever harmed anyone. In the past three years, she had put so many vicious thugs behind bars that a portion of the L.A. County Jail was called 'Seaborn's Zoo', and she had developed a reputation for being a formidable opponent to any federal fugitive. She looked forward to the day, actually, when they found out who was after them and got so scared they just turned themselves in. That hadn't happened yet, but they certainly got scared when they realized she was a fast runner, a superb driver, packed a hard punch, and was one hell of a good shot.

The only thing she really missed was flying. She hadn't been up in a plane or a chopper in a long time, except as a passenger, and she wondered sometimes if she still had the chops to handle either one any more. She remembered Murdock telling her that her muscle memory and instincts were excellent ("Almost as good as mine!"), but it had been three years…

Three years. It had been three years, too, since she had even been touched by a man. Not that she figured she could allow it now, in spite of therapy and counseling and a firm regaining of her self-esteem and confidence. She didn't like anybody touching her at all, and obviously didn't date. The irony of her current assignment was not lost on her at all, of course: she was pursuing the last man who had touched her, and not only had he touched her, but he had come within just one day of being her lover. After al-Murad, she had blamed God – had even raged at Him a few times - for what had happened and for causing her to lose out on that experience. A woman in her rape survivor's group in Virginia had told her that it was that sleazy bastard who had raped her, not God, and to place blame where blame truly lay.

She turned into the parking garage next door to her building and go out, scanning the area carefully before starting to walk toward the elevators. She had her Glock with her, of course, and the garage was maintained by a very large man named Clyde who carried a weapon and almost three hundred pounds of muscle. She had little to fear in here, but she had learned to be cautious.

Her neighborhood was a quiet one just the same – except when the feral parrots were in breeding season – and her apartment was on the second level. She could have afforded a larger apartment, but she liked the layout of her place, and that it prevented her from gathering up too much clutter. Her bedroom opened onto a little balcony where she could read the paper in the morning and argue with Stalin, who liked to eye the birds in the little garden behind the building. She had a nice view of the ocean, too, and could enjoy a nice breeze on hot days.

Letting herself in, she was greeted by the cat, who meowed his demands for supper. She flopped onto the couch instead, the cat looking disgruntled about being ignored. She put her feet on the coffee table, stretched and was soon asleep, Stalin finally curling up beside her. She dreamed about Ospreys and of strong arms around her waist, holding her close as she danced to a song about little feet and moonlight.

* * *

Carmen Hanley was supposed to be at her desk at precisely eight o'clock each morning, whether Miss Buchanan was there or not. The problem was that Carmen's boyfriend had stayed overnight, and subsequent activities had made her forget to set her alarm for seven o'clock. So she didn't wake up until almost a quarter 'til eight, and then she had to get dressed while her boyfriend kept grabbing her, and then she missed the bus due to having finally given in to his request for a quickie that soon escalated into a longie. She arrived at her desk at nine-forty-five and Miss Buchanan didn't look extremely willing to hear any excuses. Carmen decided to sit down and start working on correspondence, hoping the earth would shift just enough for the redhead to forget about it.

Frankly, she didn't know what to think about Miss Buchanan. Carmen hadn't been able to really get the young woman to discuss much of anything beyond mail and letters and why was she late this morning, so far. She knew she was from Tennessee – the accent only presented itself strongly when she was ticked off – and was unmarried with no children, and as far as anyone in the office knew, Miss Buchanan didn't date. That was the strangest part – she was, Carmen admitted, a knockout. She always wore nice, tailored business-type outfits and had a fantastic figure – why not a boyfriend somewhere, or at least an FWB? She shook her head and read through the stack of stuff she had to type up.

Not that Miss Buchanan was unkind or anything. She was pretty fair, even if she was kind of temperamental. Like yesterday, for instance, when she had gotten so upset just because Carmen hadn't taken down the name of the guy who had called her. Then she had gotten up and stormed out, leaving the secretary wondering if she should come in at all this morning. But now, the Marshal was just sitting at her desk, reading through the stack of files about the A-Team and making notes on a legal pad.

At exactly noon, Miss Buchanan got up and came out to stand at Carmen's desk, waiting while the secretary wrapped up a conversation with her boyfriend. "Carmen, I'm going to lunch. Since you were an hour late, you can wait another hour to go to lunch, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," Carmen answered, a little sullenly. "Does…does that mean I have to work an hour late, too?"

"What do you think?" she asked mildly.

"Okay…" Carmen nodded and wished she had gotten that job at Starbucks instead.

* * *

Almost an hour later, Carmen sighed, looking at the clock for the millionth time since noon, and picked up the phone to call her boyfriend back. He would be free right now – his boss usually left for lunch at eleven thirty. It was almost one now, and she had every intention of signing off as soon as the clock read 1:00. She was punching the number in when she heard a throat clear and looked up.

"Hi. I've got a delivery, ma'am."

Carmen sized up the man, taking in his arresting green eyes and rather shaggy appearance, but decided he was kind of good-looking anyway, even if his uniform (Carlito's Flower Shop) looked a little tight. He was chewing gum and looking around the office with keen interest. He was holding a pretty yellow china vase stuffed with white and yellow daisies, and Carmen wondered if her boyfriend had actually decided to show how grateful he was to her for having been willing to try that _particular_ thing last night.

"From whom?" she asked, getting him to look at her again. Those were the prettiest green eyes she had ever seen.

He shrugged. "They're for Miss Buchanan. Is she in?" He glanced at the open office door, reading the lettering: SEABORN A. BUCHANAN, US MARSHAL. She saw his mouth twitch in what she thought was mild amusement before he looked at her again.

"No, she's out for lunch. Would you like me to take them?" she asked.

"I'll put 'em on her desk, ma'am, if you don't mind." He had a really sexy Southern drawl, too. Carmen had always liked Southern guys. Her boyfriend was from North Florida, but ten years in California had eradicated it for the most part.

"Who is sending them?" she asked him, remembering Miss Buchanan's rule about deliverymen and the packages they brought her. Carmen often wondered if she thought a package would contain scorpions or something.

"They're from a friend," he answered. "An old friend." Carmen noticed a very slight limp as he walked into the office and placed the vase on the center of the desk. He nodded to her and left, walking quickly toward the elevators. Carmen noted his cute butt and shrugged before giving up on her boyfriend and getting ready to leave. Three more minutes and she'd be able to go to lunch at last. She heard the elevator doors ding, and glanced at the clock again. Two more minutes.

* * *

Seaborn had eaten alone, at the fountain in the little park across from the office, and fed the remains of her sandwich to the ring-neck doves that populated the little patch of green. Their cooing and funny way of walking appealed to her, and she thought they were far prettier than pigeons. While the doves gobbled up the breadcrumbs, she threw her trash away and stood up, straightening her skirt and putting on her sunglasses.

She walked across the street and jumped when she heard someone give her a wolf-whistle. She only glanced briefly at the group of construction workers down the street, unable to make herself actually feel offended, and stopped to buy a newspaper. She wasn't surprised to see another story on the A-Team, this one written by somebody called A. Allen and who was apparently sympathetic to them. Seaborn folded the paper under her arm and continued into the building, passing through the security checkpoint just inside the door. She sighed and showed them her badge and her Glock before moving on, across the marble-floored lobby and making a right turn to the elevators.

She punched the 'up' button and stood still, waiting and reading the headlines. Corruption, murder, government waste, blah blah blah, same old same old. She wondered why she even bothered to read the damned thing. It was usually so depressing.

The doors dinged and opened. She stepped in, noting that the elevator was empty, punched '3' and leaned against the wall as she read. Musak was playing – Barry Manilow. She shuddered and turned over to international news. The elevator lurched slightly when it reached the third floor and the doors dinged again, sliding open. She stepped out and went to her office at a slow pace. It was precisely one o'clock, and she saw Carmen getting up from her desk, grabbing her jacket. Seaborn raised her eyebrow at her, but said nothing and went into her office.

She dropped the newspaper when she saw the bouquet of daisies, and for a few seconds she stood frozen in place. Finally, she went around and examined the flowers carefully, finding the card in its little plastic holder. With trembling fingers, she tore it open and read the note:

CONTACT CAPTAIN CHARISSA SOSA,

DCIS

…AND STAY BEAUTIFUL, BABY!

She threw the card down and dashed out of her office, already drawing out her Glock. Other Marshals looked up, startled, when they saw her run past. She headed for the stairs, yelling for people to get out of the way. She got to the top of the flight and looked over the edge, down the stairwell, and saw a man moving fast – he looked familiar, with the same dark, unkempt hair. She tried to get a better look, but finally just yelled "James!"

He looked up, and their eyes locked for the briefest of moments before he continued moving, taking two steps at a time, and she could have sworn she heard him _laughing_. Seaborn headed down, thankful for three years of jogging and the fact that she never wore heels. She reached the street level and rushed down the hall toward the security gates, seeing him round the corner, skidding just a little but staying on his feet. Seaborn was raising her gun and heard him yelling. "Security! Security! There's a crazy lady back there with a gun! She's screaming and threatening a puppy!" Before she could even react, two security guards were heading her way. She knocked one guard on his ass and shoved the other away, rounded the corner and pointed her Glock at him, her heart pounding, praying he wouldn't make her do it. "Stop!"

Murdock kept running, not even looking back at her, straight to the security gates. He dodged one guard and flattened another with a quick elbow jab to the stomach, and kept moving, sprinting toward the doors – which were opening as two women came in. When they saw Seaborn pointing her gun in their direction, they both screamed and dove out of the way. Murdock passed through the security gates, another guard only managing to grab his shirt for the briefest of moments before the pilot tore away from him.

"Stop that man!" she yelled. "Stop him! He's a federal fugitive, dammit! Close the door! _Shut the Goddamn door_!"

Murdock kept moving, passing through the gates, evading the bevy of guards coming at him, barely avoiding being tackled by one and losing his momentum a little in the process. The alarms were going off now, and a guard was reaching for the button that would close and lock the doors, but the pilot was faster, diving through the open doors in the nick of time but losing his balance and falling forward. As he landed, the guard hit the button and the doors closed on his leg, stopping him. She heard him cry out in pain and she shouted at him to be still and put his hands behind his head. Murdock, however, managed to roll over onto his back and began struggling, refusing to give up, kicking hard at the door as he tried to yank his leg out. She saw his face contort with pain, but he kept fighting, cursing in some other language.

Seaborn, swearing through clenched teeth, fired. But the doors were bulletproof, so the bullets only stopped in them, failing to pierce through. She saw Murdock's surprised expression and wide eyes, and fired again, her eyes narrowed and blazing with fury. Another bullet, then two more, cracked the glass and he finally managed to pull his leg out and scrambled to his feet, turning on his good leg and dashing away. She rushed forward and slammed her shoulder against the doors, then whirled around. "Open the door!" she screamed at the guards, who were scrambling around like the Keystone Cops, totally confused.

He was running again – hard and fast in spite of the fact that he was limping, heading west, and Seaborn followed him out as soon as the doors opened. She heard Shore and Magnusson yelling behind her, but continued on, scanning the front courtyard of the building. She saw a black van with red detailing screeching to the curb and bouncing over it, the door sliding open. She saw Peck reaching for Murdock, shouting for him to hurry up, and she raised her Glock to fire just as Murdock dove into the van, and swore violently when the door closed and the van sped away. Livid, she whirled around to glare at her team, which was running up to her, guns drawn, eyes wide.

"What the hell was that?" Shore asked her.

"Howling Mad," she answered, and fought off a full-blown temper tantrum as she stalked back into the building. She heard sirens coming up the street, and kicked the ruined door on her way in. The glass finally shattered, crashing to the ground in a million pieces. Feeling somewhat gratified, she continued on to the elevators.

* * *

"Murdock? Hey, man, wake up," B.A. said, shaking the pilot gently. Murdock opened his eyes and immediately regretted such a foolish course of action. He was lying on a picnic table at a park several miles out of Long Beach, the sun was shining directly in his face, and his knee was killing him. He sat up, with B.A. assisting him only a little, and looked around. Face and Hannibal were seated in beach chairs beside a campfire, and he could smell somebody _burning bacon_! He scrambled down from the table, B.A. grumbling at him for not lying still, and limped over to them. "Hey! You're ruinin' supper!"

"I knew that'd get him up," Hannibal said, grinning at Face, who snickered.

Murdock took the frying pan away from Face – a terrible cook even when supplied with the right equipment – and looked at the burned bacon. "You did ruin it!" He opted against banging the pan on Face's head and instead found the package of bacon and began pulling out the strips and laying them across the pan. He settled the pan in the coals and watched the strips of pork begin to sizzle. "You never _rush_ bacon. It requires thought and skill and…yeeeouch…aloe for when you burn yourself."

"Feeling okay?" Hannibal asked him.

"Better," Murdock nodded. "My knee will heal."

"I have an idea," Hannibal announced, leaning back in his seat and stretching his legs out. Face gestured for Murdock to roll his pants leg up so he could take a look at the knee. It was purple and swollen, and the conman winced. "We are going to make honest money."

"How, exactly, would we do that?" Murdock asked. "We're wanted. Anybody's turn us in. I don't think anybody'd hire us. Not even McDonald's."

"Not necessarily. Not if we prove ourselves to be…_helpful_." He took a puff of his cigar. "What do you usually hear on the streets? You hear tales of extortion, kidnappings, various other unpleasantness…and so on and so forth. We return kidnapping victims to their families, we run extortionists out of town on a rail, that sort of thing…we gain a reputation and word of mouth spreads. We thus obtain honest cash and can sleep with ourselves at night."

Face snorted. "I'd rather sleep with Cha-…I mean, I'd rather just…sleep, period. In a bed. With sheets. And cable TV."

"Preferably with Skinemax," Murdock nodded. His mind went back to the afternoon, seeing Seaborn for the first time in three years. She had changed her appearance a lot, so far as her clothes went, but the fiery determination in her eyes was back, and in spades, and she had looked _damned_ good in that black miniskirt and devil-red blouse, her hair down around her shoulders, thick and rich and silky dark flame-red. God, she had looked spectacular. If she hadn't been shooting at him, he would have asked her to go dancing.

"And with honest money, you can do just that," Hannibal pointed out, glancing at Face. "With a clear conscience to boot. Now we can only hope Buchanan contacts Charissa and comes around to our way of thinking."

"And if she doesn't?" Face asked, glancing at Murdock, who rolled his pants leg back down and started turning the bacon.

"Then we'll just have to wing it," Hannibal said. "But I know this will work." He frowned and muttered, barely heard by the others, "It has to work."

"Ah, faith. _The evidence things hoped for, the proof of things not seen_." Murdock pointed at his swollen knee. "My knee has great evidence of some damage, lemma tell ya. Meanwhile, we can go camping! Think about it, B.A.…sleeping under the stars, listening to crickets chirp and chirp and chirp until your brain finally explodes…mosquitoes…getting hopelessly lost in the woods, like those morons in _The Blair Witch Project_…uh…bear attacks!"

"Shut up, fool!" B.A. snapped, but he didn't sound angry. "Is that bacon done yet?"

"Have patience, Grasshopper," Murdock said cheerfully. "All good things come to those who wait."

B.A. rolled his eyes. He had been waiting all night for a good meal. He was just glad Murdock had finally woke up. Otherwise, he would have had to suffer through Face's lousy cooking.


	14. Honor and Duty

**Well, it's 2am! I was going to go to bed early tonight, but this chapter finally gelled in my warped little skull. So I had to get up and tap it out. Oh, but I have jury duty Monday, so maybe I'll have some time to work on part 15 when that's all done. Who knows? **

Song referenced: _When I Dream_, by Crystal Gayle. It's a beautiful song, and really suits Seaborn.

* * *

Friarson studied the little card and finally glanced up at Seaborn, who was still standing there, her expression inscrutable. He sighed and put his hands on his desk. "And why, exactly, would Captain Murdock bring you flowers?"

"Well, in order to make a delivery, he'd have to bring something to deliver, wouldn't he? Flowers make more sense than, say, a pizza or somebody's ear." She frowned. "Then again, Captain Murdock might well send pizzas as a prank. He's that kind of guy…"

"Yes. I've read his records." He rubbed his temples for a moment. "Police couldn't keep up again, hm? Lost 'em?"

"They have apparently acquired reliable transportation," she said. "What's funny is that Mr Conroy's car was delivered back to him with the window and light replaced, and a problem with the carburetor was fixed as well." She shrugged. "They must know someone here in Long Beach after all – it's not like they have loads of cash sitting around. And Baracus is a superb driver…anyway, my team is searching for the seller right now."

"Sit down, Seaborn," Friarson said, gesturing to the chair. She sat, he glanced at her legs for just one semi-masochistic moment, remembering the ring on his finger and his wife's plate-throwing abilities, and nodded. "Okay. So why did he bring _you_ the flowers? Not that I'm all that surprised that a guy would br-…I mean, why you? How does Captain Murdock know you?"

She looked down, and he was curious to see her wringing her hands. "Uh…we sort of…er…knew each other back in Iraq, three years ago."

"Really? And when were you going to tell me about this little detail?" Friarson asked her calmly. "I don't want to be intrusive, Seaborn, but that's a pretty important thing. Exactly how well did you two know each other?"

She kept wringing her hands, and pursed her lips. "We sort of…dated…I guess…in Iraq."

"Oh?" Friarson did a quick bit of math and realized that Captain Murdock was about ten years Seaborn's senior. Not exactly robbing the cradle, but the difference in their ages was rather…_interesting_, along with the fact that he had outranked her.

"Sir, you know my history. It's all in my records. He was there…well, he came upon Khaled al-Murad as he was…raping me…and…" She swallowed and took a deep breath. "Captain Murdock shot his thumbs off." She took a deep breath. "I'm sure he would have killed him, too, if Lieutenant Peck hadn't stopped him."

Friarson's eyes widened. He knew that she had been raped in Iraq, but _that_ little detail had never been revealed before. "Well, good for Captain Murdock," he said at last, quietly. "I'd've done the same thing, and more."

"Right…well…I haven't seen Captain Murdock since then…until this afternoon, anyway. I didn't actually catch a glimpse of him at the warehouse the other day. Anyway, I…guess he figures maybe I'll contact this Captain Sosa person. He probably thinks I'm interested in whether or not he's actually guilty."

"Are you?" he asked.

"No sir. I don't care. I'm supposed to catch him."

"Well, contact her anyway. We need all the information we can get that might help us catch these guys. DCIS, huh? Interesting. See what she has to say, if anything, and report back to me with whatever you learn."

"Yes, sir." She got up and started out the door. "Um…sir…I promise you, my past…involvement…with Captain Murdock will not interfere with my capturing him or the rest of the A-Team. I will catch them."

Friarson nodded. He was going to have to believe her, at least for now.

* * *

Seaborn spent the next fifteen minutes on the phone, arguing with various officials with the DOD, repeating again and again that she was, indeed, a Federal Marshal (maybe she sounded too young? Or was it the Southern accent?) and that she was trying to find a Captain Charissa Sosa. She had no luck, however, and the result was her banging the phone receiver on her desk several times in reaction to another negative response from some pencil-pushing boob at the DOD. She was cursing a blue streak until she glanced up and saw Carmen in the doorway, wide-eyed and holding a stack of files to her chest. "Uh…Miss Buchanan…I have Captain Sosa on line three."

"You're joking, right?"

"No…ma'am. I called them and…uh…anyway…" She glanced at Seaborn's Glock, which was in its holster, hanging on the back of the chair in front of the desk. Carmen breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. You can go now. And shut the door, please."

Carmen backed out of the room, closing the door quietly, and sat back at her desk. Really, she should have gotten used to Seaborn's outbursts of temper. It wasn't like they were _rare_.

Seaborn glanced at the blinking light on her phone and picked it up, hitting the line. "Buchanan."

"This is Captain Sosa. Is this US Marshal Seaborn Buchanan?"

"Yes. It is. I was told to contact you."

"By whom?"

"A Captain James Matthew Murdock, formerly of the United States Army and now a federal fugitive."

There was a brief silence. Finally, Sosa cleared her throat. "We'll have to speak in private, actually."

"Why is that?"

"I just think it would be easier that way, Miss…Buchanan, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Seaborn? Right. I will be in L.A. tomorrow. Can we meet somewhere?"

"I…okay. Fine. Tomorrow…?"

"I'll call you with my whereabouts and we'll have lunch."

"_Lunch_? Captain Sosa, this is _Federal_ matter. Involving a state-wide and possibly even a nation-wide manhunt for four armed and dangerous federal fugitives. Who were found guilty of treason against their country…"

"You do _eat_, don't you?" There was the tiniest trace of amusement in Charissa's voice, which rankled Seaborn's nerves, but she closed her eyes and tamped down her temper.

"Yes, I do. I've even been known to eat DOD officials when they fail to cooperate with me. Call me back when you get to L.A…if you don't _mind_."

"Certainly! Thanks."

The line went dead and Seaborn smacked the phone back on its hook. She rubbed her forehead, feeling a migraine coming on, and tried again to remember where she had heard the name Charissa Sosa before. It sounded awfully familiar, but it wasn't coming to her. The headache wasn't helping, either. Carmen inched back into the room, looking uneasy and ready to run if Seaborn went for the Glock.

"You have another call, Miss…Miss Buchanan. Line four."

"And who would it be this time?" Seaborn asked, keeping her voice mild, even though right now she felt another volcanic explosion of temper rising to the top of her head, along with what was now a searing headache.

"Uh…he said his name is James."

Seaborn stared at her, blinked, and snatched up the phone, hitting the line and waiting.

"Hey, baby, how's it shakin'?"

She closed her eyes tight, determined to not let him provoke her. "I am doing excellently, Captain Murdock. Pray, please inform me of the condition of your _knee_."

"Swollen and kinda hot actually, but I've always been a fast healer," he answered pleasantly. "Dja contact Sosa yet?"

"That would be classified information, and might I add that I'm not at all surprised by your audacity today - walking into a federal marshal's office in the middle of the afternoon, wearing the _stolen_ uniform of a flower delivery service and bearing a vase of…"

"Daisies. Yep. Hey, we didn't hurt the guy…really. A little knot on the head never hurt nobody…much…and all we took was the bouquet of daisies and gave him twenty bucks for his trouble. And by 'classified', I will assume you mean 'yes'?"

Peterson waved at her from his desk across the way from her own – he had a trace. She nodded and raised her palm to him, signaling him to keep his mouth shut. "Well, I'm sure he's very grateful to still be alive."

"Oh, well, I am too!" he answered breezily. "Though frankly I'm not afraid of dyin'. I'm right with Jesus, y'know. Gotta say, baby, you've definitely changed. Not that there was a lot that needed improving on – all the material was present and accounted for. Always thought you'd look good in a miniskirt and red blouse, by the way. Damn sexy…the Glock just made it even better. Got any high heels? You'd look even hotter in heels and somethin' in leather…"

"Captain, I am not at all interested in how I look to you!" she snapped. "But I will attempt to be reasonable. If you turn yourselves in, I will do all that I can to insure that your friends will be treated fairly and transported safely back to…"

"Prison. Or for me, the booby hatch. Thanks, but I think I'll just pass on that sweet little deal."

She could hear noises in the background from where he was calling – music and people talking, and what sounded like someone ordering a drink. Was he calling from a _bar_? She looked at Peterson, who was scribbling something down. "Then you will leave me no choice, Captain. I don't relish the idea, but if I have to, I will shoot you."

"Life is full of risks, darlin'. Gotta go. Got your trace now?"

"Yes!" she hissed, which caused Peterson to take a nervous step back.

"Good. Hey, 'member what I told you, back in Iraq?"

She drew in her breath. Peterson was holding up the paper now. The Pelican Bar & Grille, _just three damned blocks away_! "I do recall…but I don't speak that particular lang-"

"Meant every word, baby," he cut her off. "See ya soon. Gotta skee-daddle!" The line disconnected and Peterson grinned triumphantly. She was on her feet and rushing toward the door before he could even speak.

"Move!" she yelled, and took off for the stairs for the second time in less than four hours.

* * *

The bar was almost empty, which struck Seaborn as rather odd, as it was almost five o'clock. The bartender glanced up at her and raised his eyebrows. She held up her badge, and he raised his hands in the air and dropped a shot glass, which shattered on the floor.

"I swear to God, I didn't do it!" he yelled, eyes wide with terror.

"I don't care if you just robbed a bank," she snarled at him. "Where is he?"

"Where is who?"

"Tall, dark hair, late thirties, green eyes, prob'ly wearing a red cap…" She pointed her gun at the payphone. "He was using the _phone_." At his blank stare, she rolled her eyes. "Southern accent?"

"Never seen nobody like that tonight, ma'am," the bartender said, hands still in the air. "But then I just started my shift about five minutes ago…"

"Look around," she told Ripley, who nodded and headed toward the bathrooms. Christine went into the ladies' room and came back out a moment later, followed by a frightened-looking woman who booked it for the front door and ran out. Shore and Ripley went into the mens' room, but emerged moments later, with nothing to show for the effort. She holstered her Glock and rubbed her temples, annoyed. She knew the A-Team was good. She knew they specialized in the ridiculous…but this _was_ ridiculous. How the hell did they manage to pull stuff like this off?

The Marshals looked around the bar and in the storage room and office in the back, and after a few moments they gave up on finding anything and left as the police came in to do some fingerprinting and to ask a few standard questions. Seaborn walked slowly to the office, turning down an offer for a ride with her team. She looked at her watch – it was five o'clock, she was starving, and right now all she wanted was a Philly cheesesteak and a Coke. She called Ripley on her cellphone and told him she was going to get an early supper and would meet them in her office to go over the recording of the call from Murdock.

* * *

Angelo's was the only place in town, as far as Seaborn was concerned, that sold authentic Philadelphia-style cheesesteaks. She had never liked the city itself much, but the sandwiches were sublime and she had been immensely gratified to find a place in Long Beach that actually made them right. Even better, the little restaurant had a deck for outdoor dining, with a nice view of the beach. She collected her sandwich (a pizza cheesesteak, no onions) and Coke and went out to the patio, enjoying the evening breeze.

She was watching the sun slowly melting into the sea, becoming drowsy and attributing that to her stressful day. She was actually looking forward to going home and taking a long, soaking bath with lilac-scented crystals, and dreaded going back to the office again. She'd watch _Serpico_ tonight, she decided and sat back in her seat, yawning. _May your first child be a masculine child…_

"Hello, gorgeous."

Her eyes snapped open and she stared across the table at Murdock, who leaned forward on his elbow, studying her with interest. "What the…"

"Now don't go pullin' a gun here, baby. There's people about. Families with little kids and the like. That would be upsettin' to all concerned. So just relax, okay?"

"How dare you…"

"'sides, I got a gun, too, but I really don't want to use it. It would be just downright rude, don't you think? I'm not rude by nature. You know that."

She saw that he had only one hand on the table. The other was down, and she swallowed, knowing his weapon was pointed directly at her, under the table. How had he snuck in here without her even noticing? She looked around, seeing numerous patrons at the tables on the decks – families with rambunctious little kids, and young couples chatting in the twilight. This was, indeed, no place for gunplay. She turned her gaze back to him, taking in his appearance. His hair was shorter, but was still uncombed, and he had shaved the scruffy stubble of earlier today. He was wearing a sharp grey suit and blue tie over a crisp white shirt, and looked extremely handsome. His shoulders were just as wide, he looked just as hard and fit as ever, and that only added to his appeal.

"Like the suit? Face got it for me. Off the rack, yeah, but quality, he said."

"_Stolen_ off the rack?" she hissed.

"Nah…borrowed."

"You have got a lot of nerve…"

"I know. I've got tons of nerve. Looks like I'm gonna need 'em, too. We need to talk, though, and this is the right place. Just pretend you're having a nice, quiet, intimate meal with…uh…your lover."

"Oh, very funny!" she snapped, still keeping her voice low. "You are not my lo-…what are you doing here?"

"Well, I figured we ought to have a little on-on-one time. A nice little chat."

"Your face is all over every newspaper in the country. On every news broadcast. You actually think no one is going to recognize you?" she asked him, looking around. She was dismayed to see that no one appeared to be even vaguely interested in her or her dining companion.

"Not really. People are here to eat, not to look for fugitives. Ya wanna find fugitives, ya go to Starbucks or veterinarian's offices. Nice cheesesteaks they got here, too, I gotta say. Put your hands on the table, baby, so's I can see 'em. We'll save the gunplay for later." He grinned at her, and she felt the same vertigo she had experienced the first time she had met him. Seaborn obeyed him, placing her hands on either side of her basket of cheesesteak and fries, but continued to glare at him.

"So what now?" she asked him. "Are you kidnapping me or something?"

"Kidnappin' you? Good Lord, no! You'd be too much trouble. We're on the run, but we're not criminals. You know that."

"I don't know that at all," she reminded him. "I know you were convicted…"

"Yeah, yeah. Convicted but not guilty. There's a difference."

She leaned forward. "That isn't my concern, Captain. My job, as I have told you before, is to catch you."

He raised an eyebrow, and Seaborn continued to stare at him, finally meeting his gaze. A thousand different memories came rushing back to her then. Conversations in the hangar over unusual but delicious meals. A game of Scrabble that had come to grief over the word (or non-word, she had insisted) 'et', which he had insisted was actually a word, as in 'He et his biscuit'. Sitting together in an Apache, and somehow managing to make out in spite of the limited space and awkward positioning. Learning how to do a 'wango' across Texas. Sounds and images and sensations – they all made her forget her anger toward him, as well as her resolve. She felt the tension finally leaving her jaw, and her shoulders relaxed.

"You look beautiful, y'know," he told her quietly. "I like what you've done with your hair."

Seaborn did something then that she hadn't done in a long time: she blushed. He sat back in the chair, looking rather pleased with himself, and she suddenly jerked herself back to reality. "Listen to me, Captain. I will catch you. If it's not tonight, it will be soon. Count on it."

"And then what will you do to me, baby?" he asked her, leaning forward. "Haul me back to Germany and the nuthouse? Huh? Could you do that and live with yourself?"

Her fists clenched. "I will do what I swore I would do, Captain," she answered. "I have done the same thing to countless criminals in the past two years. It was not then nor is it _now _my job to concern myself over the guilt or innocence of a fugitive. My job is to catch them."

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, jaw tightening. "So, what then…it's nothing personal?"

Seaborn drew in breath. "It's nothing personal."

"Like hell it isn't," he snapped. "It's very personal!"

"Do you honestly think this is some kind of game?" she asked him. "That I'm just out to get you because you're _you_? That's not it at all! This has nothing to do with us…with what happened in Iraq, Captain. Nothing at all."

"My name," he said, finally losing patience with her and banging his fist on the table, "is _James_." People at the other tables looked up, startled, but no one appeared to recognize him, because they all returned to their meals. "And no, this isn't a game. This is my reputation we're talkin' about. Our reputations. I may be certifiable, but not for one moment did I ever even consider betraying my country or throwing away my own honor, and neither did my friends. I have never done anything other than _serve_ my country since I turned seventeen, and I'll be damned if anybody takes away my good name and calls me a traitor, you hear me? And I'm speakin' for Hannibal and Face and B.A., too."

Seaborn was startled. He had never looked or sounded this way before, and she finally leaned forward. "I'm really supposed to believe that? That you're…what, innocent?"

"I know you don't believe me. But I am innocent. We all are. We were framed, Seaborn."

"By whom?" she asked snidely. "The one-armed man?"

"By a sleazy little prick named Lynch – or actually, Vance Burress, who was posing as a CIA operative and is currently being held someplace by some government entity, and by another, even smaller and sleazier little prick named Brock Pike, who is very seriously dead, and by a General Russell Morrison, who sold us out for millions of counterfeit dollars. Now when you talk to Captain Sosa, ask her about it."

"I've read all about it, Captain, but…"

"_James_," he reminded her, eyes narrowing.

"James," she finally said. God help her, but she had woke up saying his name that morning. Damn him. Damn him for doing this to her, just when she had finally got her balance and was moving forward in her life, even if she was resigned to being alone in it. He had to come skidding into her life again, green eyes and all, and make her have dreams about him again.

Oh, hell, like she had ever stopped dreaming about him. There were nightmares, definitely, but the _dreams_ were always about him. _When I dream, I dream of you. Maybe some day, you will come true_.

"Seaborn," he said, his voice softening, leaning forward and almost touching her hand, but deciding against it at the last moment. "I don't want to hurt you. That isn't what I'm doing, or tryin' to do. I'm not here to ruin your life or your career. I just want my life back. I want my reputation back – my good name. That's all I've _got_. I've never betrayed my country – I never would. I've never betrayed anybody, baby. Not my friends, my family…or you. I wouldn't. I _can't_."

"Why should I believe you?" she finally asked. "Why?"

"Because…because I'm not lying. I don't lie. You know that."

She did know that. She looked down. "James…I…I have a job to do…"

"I know that, baby. But I need you to believe in me. 'cause I believe in you." He leaned forward, across the table, and kissed her. Had Seaborn been in her right mind, and able to think rationally, she would have taken the opportunity to disarm him, but there was no way she could ever be rational or sane when he kissed her. Not three years ago, and not now. Instead, she felt his calloused hand on her cheek and his sweet, gentle demand for entry before she gave in, and would wonder, later, why she didn't just melt into a puddle on the table. She was just opening her eyes when he pulled away, snatched up his pistol from the table, and dashed away. He crossed the deck, jumped onto the table where a family was dining, and vaulted gracefully over the railing.

It took Seaborn exactly four seconds to regain her senses and jump to her feet, finally grabbing her Glock. The family of four that had been interrupted by Murdock's acrobatics screamed and dove to the ground as she came toward them, gun drawn and shouting for them to get out of the way. She knew the beach was about six feet below the deck, and that the landing would be hard even on the sand, but she rushed forward anyway, ignoring the still-screaming family under the table. She jumped onto a chair and up onto the railing, almost fell backwards but somehow gained her balance and began searching in the fading light for Murdock.

Several people were on the beach, which made firing at him impossible – there was far too much danger of injuring bystanders. She finally saw him – running fast, his suit covered with sand, dragging a little on his injured leg but making good time. She wasn't at all surprised to see him finally reach the stairs leading up to the sidewalk and jump into the black van she had seen that afternoon. She holstered the Glock and snatched up her cell phone to call Friarson, even though she could hear the man under the table dialing 9-1-1, gasping to the dispatcher about a crazy redhead with a gun.

His wife climbed out from under the table and stared at Seaborn. "Miss, you don't have to draw a gun on a guy just for _kissing_ you!"

* * *

It was after midnight when Seaborn finally got home. She was exhausted – the day had literally drained her of every last amount of energy she possessed. She somehow managed to get the door unlocked, leaned against it to take a few deep breaths, and shoved her way into her apartment. Stalin greeted her with a bad-tempered meow, and she methodically filled his bowls with kibble and water, and he tucked into his meal. She staggered to her couch and flopped down, miserably flipping through her mail.

She turned the television on, flipped away from the local news ("…shal drew a gun on a federal fugitive tonight at a local eatery, causing what a patron called 'complete pandemonium' as the fugitive somehow managed to evade capture…") and searched for something a little less aggravating. She finally stopped at _At Close Range_ and shut her eyes. There was that damned song again. She turned the television off and somehow managed to drag herself into her bathroom, where she turned that TV on and started running hot water in the tub. Once it was full of steaming water, she stripped and slipped in, dunking herself under the lilac-scented water. But this time, her worry and her headache didn't melt away.

One of these days, this was all going to get her into trouble. Friarson had yelled at her for letting Murdock get away. The recording of the conversation on the phone had been embarrassing. Her feet hurt. She had a run in her silk stockings and her lipstick was smeared. She could still taste him on her lips, and in her mouth, still felt his hand on her cheek, and could still hear his voice telling her she was beautiful.

She sighed, allowing that statement to let warmth spread through her entire body. She wouldn't tell anybody about it. It would be her own little secret. A couple of thugs she had been arresting had said that to her in the past two years, to their grievous harm, but to hear it from him…

And what if the A-Team _was_ innocent? What if he was telling her the truth? Didn't the case bear some investigation? It would be pretty rotten, and even unfair, of her to not look into it. Asking a few questions wouldn't hurt anything, and it wasn't as though she hadn't done that very thing in the past. Of course, all of her investigations had led her to believe that each fugitive she was chasing was actually guilty and that had only increased her determination. Whether the A-Team was guilty or not, she would continue chasing them until she caught them, and if they were actually innocent, then she would see to it that justice was served. If this Vance Burress was really the culprit, then she would see to it that he was the one who fried.

Yes, it all made perfect sense. She would run a thorough investigation, and in the meantime, she would catch them.

Simple as that.

Seaborn finally found an old silent movie on TCM and settled back, watching Buster Keaton steal _The General_ from Union soldiers. She dozed off as Johnnie kissed his girlfriend while saluting passing Confederate soldiers, and was startled awake by someone knocking on her door. Immediately, she was up and out of the tub, pulling on her robe and running to the door, dripping water on the floor. She snatched up her Glock on the way and waited for a moment, taking deep breaths, gun raised and ready. She finally, slowly, opened the door and looked up and down the hall – no one was there.

She was about to close the door when she looked down. On the floor was a tiny package, wrapped in pretty blue paper with a red ribbon. She snatched it up and tore into it, her heart pounding. With trembling fingers, she opened the little white box and choked back tears when she took out the silver chain, fingering the tiny charms that dangled from it.

Wiping her eyes, she stepped back into her apartment, locking the door and staggering to her couch, putting the gun on the table, and flopped down again, not caring that she would leave a water stain on the cushions. Stalin watched her, curious, as she put the necklace back on. She began rubbing the little conch shell, smiling softly, and examined the little chopper, then the St. Christopher medallion and the lion. They all shone like new, and the necklace had been polished thoroughly as well.

"He told me he would keep it safe, Stally," she told the cat. "He never really does lie, does he?"


	15. Orange Duck

**So weird. I wrote this in about two hours, and the twist in the plot surprised me a bit, as I didn't originally plan on it! I am definitely going to have to go to bed tonight, though. Traffic court jury members have to be sort of **_**awake**_**!**

**

* * *

**"Hannibal? Hey, boss, wake up."

Face was shaking his shoulder, but he was still holding on to that dark-haired beauty from Fort Bragg, and wasn't at all willing to let her go just yet. Another, harder, shake made her fade away and Hannibal sat up, groggy and glad he was wearing pajama bottoms and a sheet across his waist. He glared at his XO, but Face's worried expression made him stop growling before he even started. "What? What's wrong?"

"It's Murdock. His knee is really swollen, and it's hot...he's got a pretty bad fever."

"Damn…" Hannibal threw the sheet off and padded barefoot out of the room, following Face down the hall to Murdock's room.

Face had found the house two days before, and had convinced the homeowner that he was a producer looking for local filming locations, and her luxurious beachfront compound was ideal as the fictional home of a powerful drug lord portrayed by either Al Pacino or Vin Deisel, whoever took the part. The woman had been eager to see her place in the movies, and thus was only charging a small rent while she was in the South of France for the summer. The team members each had their own room, and even better, the kitchen was huge and fully stocked. The only problem was that since last night, Murdock wasn't able to stand on his feet, as his knee was only getting worse, so the cooking had been left to Face and, with even more unhappy results, Hannibal, who couldn't boil water.

B.A. was already in the room, applying a cold compress to the pilot's knee and muttering at him for having refused to admit that anything was wrong for so long. Murdock, eyes bright with fever, was mumbling in another language, and didn't seem to see Hannibal at all, even when looking directly at him. "I don't want pickle-flavored ice cream, dammit," he finally said. "I'll have sausage and…and a stuffed jackalope, please…hold the turnips…"

It was the day after Murdock's encounter with Seaborn, and he had indeed landed hard on his bad leg after vaulting over the railing from the deck at Angelo's. He had denied being in any pain, and had actually seemed excited and cheerful, but last night, after having followed her home and delivering that mysterious package to her, he had finally mentioned that his knee _hurt_ and he was going to bed early. That in and of itself was a sign of real trouble – Murdock usually had to be cajoled, tricked and finally threatened into going to bed any earlier than three in the morning.

Face and B.A. had taken turns keeping an eye on him, all through the night, and it had been Face who finally gave him sleeping pills, praying he would rest a little. But that hadn't happened. Instead of going to sleep, Murdock had tried to get up and climb out the window to run away from the pain, with B.A. only barely managing to drag him back to the bed and having to pin him down until he agreed to at least lie still, but nightmares plagued the pilot all through the rest of the night. At five in the morning, he woke up screaming and trying to escape again, finally getting up and pacing around his room in a circle, dragging his injured leg behind him, as if trying to elude the ferocious pain that was gripping him. It had taken Face and B.A. both to get him to lie down again. He was pale and sweaty now, shaking and refusing to let them touch him.

The other three men exchanged nervous glances and Hannibal finally sat down on the edge of the bed beside the increasingly delirious pilot. "Murdock? Hey…listen, son…come on…look at me…"

"I wanna go home, Jack. Please take me home. They…they put me in that room again, and…I don't like it. Please take me home."

Face and B.A. looked at each other, bewildered, then at Hannibal, who shrugged helplessly.

"Okay," Hannibal finally answered. He felt Murdock's forehead and winced – the pilot was burning up. "Damn…we have to get him to a doctor. ASAP."

"How?" Face said, grimacing with worry. "He'll be reported…"

Hannibal thought about it carefully before nodding and standing up. "I have an idea."

"What kind of idea?" B.A. asked him.

"The best I can come up with. Come on."

* * *

Seaborn glanced at her watch again, her agitation growing. Sosa was ten minutes late and so far, no phone call to explain why. She hated being delayed or being kept waiting for any reason, and was on the verge of getting up to leave when the maitre'd oozed over to the table, bowing to her. "_Mademoiselle_, Captain Sosa has called to express her regret at her tardiness, but she will be here as soon as possible. Her plane has been delayed, but she is on her way at this very moment."

"Right, right…" Seaborn sighed and nodded when he offered to refill her glass of water.

Weird that Sosa would ask her to meet at this place. It was a swanky, overpriced French place called Cambremont's, with no sign outside, no advertisements, and no listed phone number. She was surprised snipers hadn't been posted on the roof to shoot any riffraff that tried to get in, and considering that she herself was generally considered part of the unwashed crowd, she wondered how she had been allowed through the doors, even if she was wearing a short, sharp little black dress, with her hair up in a twist. She had looked at the menu, paled, and put it down immediately. Let Sosa pay, she decided. I'll get the orange duck and a glass of good white wine.

Finally, after another ten minutes of waiting and drumming her fingers on the table, Sosa slid into her seat and smiled at her. "Hi." She held out her hand, and Seaborn shook it firmly, causing the other woman's eyebrows to lift. Charissa was a beautiful woman, in her mid-thirties, possessing a deceptively sweet-looking face and dark honey-blonde hair, and she was studying Seaborn carefully. "I swear to God, I've seen you somewhere before," Sosa finally said.

"Maybe. Can we discuss this matter about the A-Te-…"

"Wait, wait…I remember now. Fort Bragg…about five years ago, maybe? Four years? Yes. New Year's Eve." She leaned forward a bit to study Seaborn more closely. "Sergeant _S.A. _Buchanan."

"Yes, but that's not…"

"I recall buying a certain pilot for you that evening, in the bachelor auction."

It hit Seaborn then. She sat back in her chair, drawing in her breath. "Yes, I remember now. You loaned me…"

"Five hundred dollars." Charissa looked extremely amused now. "Right…hm…and I told you that you owed me a favor."

"I can write you a check…" Seaborn said, snatching up her bag.

"No, I think I'd prefer the favor instead. A big favor." She smiled and looked around the restaurant. "Had to pick a place where other law enforcement officers weren't likely to come, see? We need to discuss the A-Team."

Seaborn gave up on looking for her wallet. She dropped her purse back to the floor and took a deep breath. "What do we need to discuss? I have the job of catching them, and I've been led to believe that you have some information about them that could prove useful in that endeavor."

"Wow, you've really changed. I recall you were a scared little bunny back at Fort Bragg. Now you're packin' a Glock and ready to tackle Smith and his boys? You've got a tall order there – and balls. Big, steel balls. The CIA, the FBI, DCIS and an entire force of local police couldn't catch them…but you think you can?"

"I can. And I will."

"Even Murdock?"

Seaborn gripped her salad fork, feeling her toes curl inside her shoes. "Even him."

"Well, you'd be the first. I've tried to deal with him a couple of times myself, and it's not easy. Talking to him is an adventure in language usage. Not that I've deal with him in the way _you've_ dealt with him, of course, but you can guarantee this – he's as smart as a whip and very, very clever. Smith and his team specialize in the ridiculous, and make the impossible look like a damned _cinch_. Have you heard from them lately?"

"No. Not since last…since yesterday."

"And what did you learn?" Sosa asked her. The waiter appeared, ready to take their order. "Anything you like, Miss Buchanan," she said. "It's on the DOD."

"I learned that I should be looking for you, and to also look into the matter of the theft of those plates, and how that all connects to somebody with the preposterous name of Vance Burress."

Sosa's expression didn't change. She instead looked at the waiter and ordered something French and dreadful-sounding. Seaborn considered asking if Cambremont's had burgers and fries on the menu, but went with the orange duck after all. She didn't even like duck, but her French was deplorable and she had never found anything Gallic that sounded even vaguely appealing.

"And what, exactly, was Burress's involvement in the theft of the currency plates?" Seaborn asked, when the waiter finally minced away.

"Well…I have it on very good authority that Burress – then calling himself Lynch – worked with Brock Pike of the Black Forest unit and with General Morrison, to use the A-Team to get the plates back, then steal them and frame the A-Team while they made themselves a fortune. Only problem was that they under-estimated Smith's team. They got their revenge toward Pike, but Burress is still out there, somewhere, and I suspect he remains extremely dangerous."

"How dangerous?" Seaborn asked.

"Lethal, Miss Buchanan. Seaborn, was it? What a pretty name – how did you get it?" She took a sip of her wine, still sizing her up carefully.

"I was born on the sea."

"Oh. Ask a stupid question…right…listen, I can only offer so much assistance to you in the capacity of my position with the DOD. I can give you names and that's about it, but I get the feeling that you wouldn't have even shown up here if you didn't want to at least do a little digging about this. Those men were locked away for six months for a crime they didn't commit, Seaborn. They retrieved those plates from some of Hussein's thugs, and got burned very badly by their own government for doing the right thing. I can tell you, these men are anything but traitors, and it is my own opinion and very strong belief that they were, in fact, framed."

"That's what Jam-…Captain Murdock told me," Seaborn said, jumping when the waiter returned with her plate of duck a l'orange. She stared down at the sad little duck and winced. Should have gone with the watercress sandwiches.

"Oh? You've spoken with Murdock?" Charissa sipped her wine, looking amused again. "How's he doing?"

"You…know him?"

"Not extremely well," Charissa shrugged. "Some might say he's crazy, and in many ways, he is. But I'm more inclined to say that he just has a mind entirely his own, and won't be pushed around or told what to do. Freedom is extremely important to that man. To them all, actually, along with their honor. Colonel Smith is the leader of the team, obviously, and a mad genius in his own right, and Fac-…Lieutenant Peck is the XO and as _evasive_ as a man can ever be, and Baracus is the mechanical and technical whiz, plus the muscle. Captain Murdock is the pilot, and some people might say he has the least important role in all this, but they wouldn't have survived most of their missions if it hadn't been for him. And don't think he can't fight like the Devil himself when called upon. Usually, though, he prefers to get you crazy, get you distracted, and then get _away_."

"How well do you know these men?" Seaborn asked her sharply. "I recall you were at that New Year's party with Lieutenant Peck…"

"I was. And that's not important, is it?"

"So you're trying to help out a former lover?" Seaborn sat back in her seat. "I'm guessing the ethical dilemmas in all this are of little importance to you."

"Are they important to you?" Charissa asked her mildly.

Seaborn looked away, feeling her cheeks warming. "I will do all that I can to capture these men and see that they are brought to justice," she finally answered, forcing herself to meet Charissa's gaze.

Instead of irritating the captain, Seaborn's statement seemed to actually please Sosa. She smiled and nodded, and dug into her salad. The two women ate in silence for several minutes, until finally Charissa put her fork down. "So…what's he like in bed?"

"W-wha…who?" Seaborn gasped.

"Murdock." Charissa rolled her eyes.

"I…I've never slept with him!"

Charissa's bit back a smile. "Really? I would have thought that…well, it was just pretty obvious, at that party four years ago, that the two of you were headed in that direction. From what I could tell, you two weren't even gonna make it to the bedroom."

"Well, things changed." She picked miserably at the duck. She wanted to confess that the changes hadn't been for the better for her. Only problem was that if the situation came up, she wasn't entirely sure she would be able to say no if he made a move in that _direction_ again. She pushed the plate away, finding the duck too gamey and this conversation far too disconcerting.

"What did he do?" Charissa asked, looking sympathetic.

"He didn't do anything…anything _wrong_," Seaborn answered, taking a final sip of her wine. "It wasn't that at all. Thanks for the meal, but I really have to go."

"You'll investigate this?"

"I'll see about it," was Seaborn's answer, and she stood up.

"I like that necklace, by the way. The little charms are really cute. Where did you get it?"

Seaborn's cheeks turned pink. "I got it from…a friend."

The maitre'd was at her elbow immediately, helping her gather up her bag. Charissa sat back in her chair, watching her leave, and shook her head, amazed. Her cell phone started ringing then – Steely Dan's _Reelin' in the Years_ – and she sighed before answering.

"Hello, beautiful."

"What do you want, Face?" she asked him, a little annoyed.

"Listen, we got a problem…Murdock's kind of…er…injured, and we need a place to take him. Some place where he can be treated safely."

"He's _injured_? How?" Charissa was immediately concerned, and kept her eyes on Seaborn as she headed toward the exit.

"Twisted knee. Maybe even broken, we're not sure, and it's infected, I think. He's in a lot of pain, feverish, delirious. Where can we take him?"

"How the hell would I know that?" she hissed, handing her card to the maitre'd. "Do you think I keep a list of doctors around here who can be bribed to keep their mouths shut?"

"Well…_yeah_."

* * *

The nurse stared at the injured man on the gurney, aghast and immediately sympathetic. Gauze was wrapped around his head, covering his eyes, and he kept babbling incoherently, batting at her hands when she tried to touch his face.

"Don't. He's just recovering from eye surgery, ma'am. Extensive plastic surgery, actually. Removal of laugh lines, bags, the works. Problem is, he got an incorrect dose of his medicine this morning, took a stroll through his house in Beverly Hills and took a tumble down the stairs. God knows how he didn't break his neck, but his knee's pretty banged up."

She looked up at the handsome man at Mr Buchanan's side, and blushed at his intense stare. She pushed her hair back and smiled at him. "We'll take good care of him, Mr…?"

"Lattimore, ma'am. Hey, Jimmy, sweetheart, don't worry. These nice people will take good care of you, okay?" Mr Lattimore squeezed Jimmy Buchanan's hand, and the nurse's smile faded. Damn – the cute ones were always either married or gay. Still, the injured man needed help – he was singing now, crooning a surprisingly good rendition of Sinatra's _Strangers In the Night_, and his knee was red and hot to the touch. She went to find a doctor, leaving Lattimore to tend to Mr Buchanan, who switched over to _Hava Nagila_, singing so loudly that several waiting patients looked up at him and frowned.

* * *

Face hung around the emergency room, hiding behind newspapers and crossword puzzle books, sitting away from everyone else and waiting for news about Murdock. It was almost twenty minutes before the nurse came out of an exam room and sought him out. He waved and stood up, and she nodded at him as he came over. "How is he?"

"The kneecap is cracked, and there's an infection. He'll need a cast, I'm afraid, and the fluid needs to be drained away. Does Mr Buchanan speak _English_, Mr Lattimore?"

"Engli-…? Oh. No. I mean, yes, he does, but he's originally from…uh…the Hebrides. Speaks…uh…fluent…Scots Gaelic. Gets confused sometimes, see, and…"

"Sounded like German to me."

"And German. He speaks German, too," Face nodded quickly, smiling. "Fluently."

"Then he switched over to what sounded like French, and then Italian, and now he's singing the pre-Revolutionary Russian National Anthem…_God Save the Tsar_. I only recognized it because my great-grandmother hummed it all the time and then would spit on a picture of Lenin. That's something you never forget, believe me. Is this guy…you know…_okay_?"

"Er…he's okay. Just…eccentric. Bilingual, too."

"I'll say."

"What's your name again, ma'am?" Face asked her, smiling and forgetting that he was supposed to be gay. He winced when her eyebrow went up. "You know, so…so we can send flowers later, in thanks for your help?" He swallowed. "Can I see him?"

"Not now. Can you wait here, please?"

"Uh…" Face was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet now, knowing the jig was up. Damn, why hadn't Charissa at least given him a couple of names? "Sure. No problem. Tell Jimmy I'm out here, and that I uh…um…love him, okay?" As if Jimmy would have a clue. He thought he was freakin' Frank Sinatra…singing in Russian. His fever and delirium had gotten worse and worse during the hectic drive across Long Beach and into L.A., to the point that B.A. had stopped grouching at him and started looking really worried.

Hannibal had told him to meet him out back and once Murdock was treated and released, they would swing back and perform the extraction operation…somehow. As if someone wasn't going to eventually lift the gauze and maybe recognize the pilot, but Hannibal was certain that if anyone could escape from a busy L.A. hospital, it was Murdock. They just needed a couple of days for him to recover from his fever, get some antibiotics, and if all went well – it had to go well – they would get him out. Somehow.

The doctor emerged from the exam room and spoke with the nurse, who looked back at Peck, eyes narrowing. He started backing toward the doors then, and looked up, exhaled slowly, and could only hope Murdock would forgive him. He glanced to his right and saw a security guard heading in his direction. "Uh-oh…" In his peripheral vision, he saw flashing lights from the ambulance bay behind him, and turned to see a police car pulling up. "Oh, shit."

Two policemen got out of the car, and Face turned back to regard the guard, who was coming toward him. The guard looked about as threatening as a sack of kittens, however, and Peck decided he would take his chances with him instead of heading out the doors. He went around the chairs, where several other bored, coughing people were seated, and evaded the guard, who changed courses and started toward him as he moved down the hall, breaking into a full run now. He sidestepped a doctor who attempted to stop him, shoved a nurse out of the way while apologizing to her, and headed toward the emergency exit, hell bent for leather, the security guard and two cops hot on his heels. He shoved the door open, went around it and held it open for them, moving behind it as they continued on down the stairs, and as soon as they were several steps down, he rushed back around and back into the hallway, pulling the door shut and streaking down the hall, knocking over carts and empty gurneys as he ran.

* * *

"What?" Seaborn shouted into her cellphone. "What did you say?"

"I said that Captain Murdock is being held at St. Thomas's Hospital in L.A.," Ripley told her. "We're on our way there now. Where're you at?"

"I'm turning around right now." She jerked on the wheel, crossed three lanes of oncoming traffic, hitting the lights on her SUV as she gunned the engine and headed toward the hospital. It was the same hospital where Kris worked, in fact. She snatched up her phone again and called her friend, knowing the extension to her nurse's station.

"Kris! Get down to the ER right now and ask them if Captain Murdock is there. Go!"

"What? What the he-…who?"

"Captain Murdock!" Seaborn yelled. "Make sure nobody hurts him, and for God's sake, don't let anybody ask him any questions!"

"I can't…"

"Kris! Do it! Now!" Seaborn shouted, and threw the cell phone down. She turned sharply and zoomed toward St. Thomas's, siren screaming, heart pounding, wondering how on earth she was going to handle this.

* * *

The police had blocked off the streets around the hospital, but already had to concede that Peck and the rest of the A-Team was gone, having screamed away in a black van, heading north and finally eluding pursing cruisers somewhere outside of L.A., heading into the country. Seaborn stopped her SUV at the roadblock and flashed her badge, and the cop let her pass through. A clutch of news reporters were standing nearby, filming a segment for that night's broadcast, and she rubbed her eyes as she went through the ambulance bay doors, holding up her badge again for the security guard, who nodded and stepped away.

"Where is Captain Murdock?" she asked, looking around for Kris, but didn't see her.

"He's being held in exam room three, ma'am," a doctor told her. She peered at his nametag – Dr. Carter. Huh, she thought. Ironic. He also looks like he'll be carded for life. "The sedatives are finally taking effect, and he's also being given antibiotics. He presented with a pretty high fever, but it's coming down. Right kneecap is cracked and very painful, and we're going to drain the fluid off of it tomorrow morning."

"Oh, well, I know he'll enjoy that," she said softly. "Is he able to answer any questions?"

"Not in English, no." Carter shook her head. "I've never met anybody who spoke so many languages. He could work for the UN. But he's also apparently a former mental patient, so…again, he could work for the UN." Carter pushed the exam room door open and stepped aside, letting her pass. She glanced back at him, then at Murdock lying on the bed, propped up and looking so pale he almost blended in with the sheets.

"James?" she finally whispered. Someone had handcuffed his wrist to the bedrail, and she frowned at that. How was he going to escape, with a busted knee?

His eyes opened, if only briefly, and he muttered something in what sounded like Spanish.

She repeated his name and went around to his side, taking care not to touch him. That brought back memories again – of avoiding touching him at all costs, lest anyone know her feelings for him. Back then, it had been a young woman's crush on an older man. Now…now it was something else; something stronger and a thousand times more dangerous.

Murdock's eyes opened again, and he finally managed to focus on her.

"A-am I…I under ar…arrest?" he asked her softly, his speech slurred.

"I'm afraid so, James."

"Wow. Back to the booby hatch for me, huh?" he asked her weakly, giggling a little. "At least ya…ya didn't h-have to shoot me, right baby?"

She glanced back at Dr Carter, who was listening to this exchange with interest. The young doctor looked at the floor, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Right. I didn't have to shoot you. And I don't know about where we'll take you yet. We'll…we'll talk about that later. Just rest for now, okay?"

Murdock seemed to lose his focus on her, and she couldn't read what was in his eyes – anger, hate, fear, or what would have been the worst: resignation. He was just drifting away from her now, too feverish and in too much pain to respond any more. He slept, and she touched the tiny conch shell on the silver chain, rubbing it between her fingers as if expecting it to give her the answers she needed.

* * *

Hannibal stopped kicking the dashboard after they were about twenty miles into Kern County. He then started pounding his fist against the door, not caring a bit if B.A. was offended or that he was scaring Face to death. He was angry, and for the first time in a while, he was a little scared. They had Murdock back there, and Sosa's news about Vance Burress had not been good.

"What are we gonna do, boss?" Face finally asked cautiously.

"We're gonna get him back, of course."

"How?" B.A. asked, thumping his fist on the steering wheel, feeling just as frustrated as Hannibal. "He'll be surrounded by a damn' battalion of guards and Federal Marshals, and as soon as he's well enough, they'll move him to some nuthouse somewhere." That alone was another reason for another fist-thump on the wheel. "Damn…damn it…if they hurt that crazy fool…"

Hannibal didn't answer. He had no answer now. He could only stare out the window, despair washing over him as they sped still further north, knowing they had to stay away from Long Beach for a while. He closed his eyes, and heard Face whispering what sounded like the Lord's Prayer. _Then say the Lord's Prayer_, he had told them once, long ago. He began reciting it himself.


	16. Western Lit

**If you saw the directors' commentary on the DVD, you'll remember Joe Carnahan mentioning Sharlto Copley singing a certain song to Jessica Biel during the scene when Sosa tried to question Murdock at the mental hospital in Germany. Anybody recall the song? I just couldn't resist referring to it here. **

**Jury duty took longer than it should have. There was much discussion about radar guns and speed limit signs…but if you drive on Highway 29 (head north out of Austin on Parmer and you will come to Highway 29), you know the speed limit is 55mhp from about the time you pass Margarita's Mexican Restaurant and stays 55mph until you pass the Liberty Hill cemetery, after which you can book it all the way to Bertram. Watch for deer and Dodge police cruisers on that road. I've been on the jury for traffic court twice so far, and both times it was the same thing! **_**Slow down**_**! **

**There's a bit more humor in this chapter than I really expected. It's more of a filler, really, before we get to the more serious stuff. Y'all will be surprised (I think!) by where Murdock ends up living for the time being. **

**

* * *

**Face almost jumped out of his skin when his cell phone started ringing. He looked across the table at Hannibal and B.A., and instinctively turned to his left to look at Murdock…but the pilot wasn't there. He rubbed his forehead, wishing he had a dignified way to throw a tantrum and burst into tears. His _brother_ had been taken away from him, largely due to his own careless stupidity, and not having him sitting there beside him felt like his own arm was missing.

They were in northern California, almost to the Oregon border now, and had finally stopped at a greasy spoon in some tiny logging town. With each passing mile, their collective misery had only grown, and they had no appetite at all. Even B.A. was just listlessly picking at his plate of pork chops, muttering that they didn't taste right without Murdock's secret sauces and spices.

Face snatched up the phone on the second ring and glanced at the number, but he didn't recognize it. "Earl's Family Diner…" he croaked.

"Lieutenant Peck. You will be relieved to know that Captain Murdock is expected to recover fully from his injury. His kneecap – the patella – was cracked in two places and will require surgery to be repaired, but his fever is almost entirely gone and the infection is being treated aggressively and very effectively. He was well into the music of Cole Porter before he finally fell asleep last night, but has been resting comfortably since then."

"Wha-…who is this?" He recognized the woman's voice, but only vaguely. She had a slight Southern lilt to her accent, which under any other circumstances he would have found bewitching.

"He will, however, require physical therapy to regain full use of his knee," she continued crisply. "He is not a _young_ man any more, and the doctors had noted prior damage to not just his knee, but also various other…indications of injury and abuse."

"What, are you saying that we…"

"Certainly not, Lieutenant. Don't be insulting."

"Who is it?" Hannibal hissed. B.A. was leaning forward, trying to overhear.

"Who the hell am I talkin' to?" Face demanded. "Is he okay? Are you sure he's okay?"

"He will be fine."

The line went dead, and Face stared at the number. He immediately saved it, and set a ringtone for it, in case she ever called again. He handed the phone to Hannibal, who stared down at it in amazement. "This person called us from a number that can be _reached_?"

Face continued to try and place the accent, and the bells started ringing at last. "It was her."

"Who her?" B.A. snapped. "What are you talkin' 'bout, fool?"

"The Hellcat. The Hellcat has him."

Hannibal sat back in the seat, his mind kick-starting from his despair, and a smile slowly spread across his face. "The Hellcat, huh? Face…call Charissa."

* * *

The first thing Murdock noticed, when he woke up, was the handcuff holding his wrist to the bedrail. The next was that he felt nauseated. Third was that Seaborn was sitting in the chair beside the bed, sleeping.

He was in restraints, which meant he was under arrest and would soon be locked up in a mental hospital with a bunch of guys who though Burma Shave was a type of cake frosting and that Elvis really was an alien (Murdock had to agree with them about the latter, actually). He was also sick to his stomach, which meant he was on strong pain-killers, which always made him a bit dippy. And thirdly, Seaborn Buchanan looked like an angel. Maybe an angel of federal vengeance, but an angel just the same.

Not a comfortable angel, though. The chair was hardly made for sleeping. It was hardly made for sitting for more than a few minutes at a time, and even that could cause back problems. But she was asleep, her long eyelashes brushing her cheeks, her hair down around her shoulders in a thick, silky dark auburn skein, framing her face and making her look like a little girl. A little girl who packed a punch and had deadly aim, yes, but that only added to her appeal for him. He had never had any patience for simpering, helpless little sexpots anyway. Give him a girl who could handle a Glock and never shied away from a fight.

He tried to move, to reach out and touch her to wake her, but his knee was wrapped up and immobilized. He couldn't move without nearly passing out from the pain, and he hated that he had lost a lot of his form. Then again, considering the less-than-stellar food at the Army psych hospital, escaping from said hospital, flying a C-130 that had blown up around him and then 'flying' to earth in a tank and finally getting his bell rung by bullets to his Kevlar-covered skull, it was a wonder he was doing as well as he was.

She suddenly sat up, gasping "What? What?" and looked around the room, gasping before regaining her composure a little. Seaborn stared at him, and he braced himself for a serious ticking off. She would be mad at him, obviously, for having caused her so much trouble, and if she had an ounce of good sense she would have already ordered that he be put on the plane to Germany. Better for her, anyway. The very thought of that made him depressed, however – he had enjoyed the past few days of playing cat and mouse with her, as well having had the chance to just _look_ at her – and to kiss her. In Army psych hospitals, one stared at rubber walls and watched dumb old movies, both of which had the same entertainment value.

What she did, instead, she was stand up and shyly touch the back her hand to his forehead. "Well…the fever's gone."

He blinked, confused. "Oh. Yeah. I'm not seein' faces in the wallpaper any more," he said, eyeing her nervously. "And who are you and what have you done with Seaborn 'Hellcat' Buchanan?"

Her mouth twitched, and he could have sworn she was about to smile, but she shook her head. "Present and accounted for, thank you, Captain. I just don't commonly shoot at or smack around guys who are already on their backs, singing Cole Porter's _After All, I'm Only a Schoolgirl_, which was rather entertaining, I must admit. Shooting and smackage both would seem excessive, and I am not a cruel person. In spite of what you may think."

"Oh, well, thanks…I guess. And I never thought you were cruel." He looked around the room. He was in what looked like a private room at some hospital, but he had no memory of having come here. "Where are my fri-…oh. Right." Whatever had happened, he knew in his head that they had had no choice but to leave him behind. In his heart, however, the pain of being abandoned was almost excruciating as the pain in his knee. Actually, in spite of his understanding of their predicament, it was ten times worse.

"Wherever they are," she told him, "they're very worried about you, I'm sure." She sat down again, crossing her knees, which made him blink. Some women had legs. Seaborn had…_legs_. Long and slim and elegant…and toned, right out of one of those fantasy graphic novels. She was wearing a short black dress, and he saw the silver chain around her neck. The tiny charms were somewhere under that dress, in between her… He swallowed and looked away. Must be the pain medication. Though frankly, pain meds had never made him _horny_ before.

"So you…don't know where…"

"No, Captain," she said, shaking her head. "I will catch them eventually, but right now, we've got to figure out what we'll do with you."

He looked away, not sure how to respond to that. "Well, I know of a few mental health facilities in the area," he finally muttered. "I'm sure they can find a padded room for me."

"I don't think we need to go there just yet," she said. "At this point, it's just important that no one inappropriate can manage to gain access to you. So I have two policemen outside the door, and the hospital staff has been given strict instructions as to who is allowed to come into this room. Namely me, my team members, and approved local law enforcement and DCIS officials. No one else."

"Oh, well, that's smart," he nodded. "Kudos for the braininess."

"The doctors who are preparing to operate on your knee have also been screened, photographed, threatened to the point of peeing their pants, and know that under no circumstances will any 'replacements' for the surgical team be allowed into any room where you will be without _my_ direct approval." She sat back in the chair, legs still crossed, and he glanced at her again.

"A bit of overkill, huh?" he asked her at last, eyes still lingering on her legs. "They're long gone, and nobody else would want me."

She raised one eyebrow. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Captain." She stood up and moved to the foot of his bed. "Your friends definitely want you back. I know that for a fact. But there are other persons who are very interested in _speaking_ with you, and I actually am far more concerned about them."

"What other people?" he asked her. "Who?"

She shrugged. "That's for me to worry about. You have surgery scheduled for this evening. Your kneecap was cracked in two, when you fell on it the other day, and I should say you were very foolish to have jumped over that railing yesterday – you came in here last night with a fever of one-oh-five and it took two big male nurses to get you under control, even with your injury. After your surgery, you will be moved to…a safe place."

"Safe? Wait a minute…I don't know that mental hospitals are all that safe…I've been in a few. They're also unsanitary and filled with, like, crazy people…"

"Captain, you are not going to a mental hospital, all right?" she told him, looking exasperated. "And you will be very safe, I can assure you. I have things to do, but I will probably be here tomorrow morning." She started toward the door, and he rattled the handcuff against the metal bed railing, causing her to turn back to face him.

"See these shackles, baby?" he asked her.

"Yes, I see them…" she answered, glancing at his bound wrist before looking at him again. Their eyes met, and she saw a mischievous sparkle there again.

"I'm your slave…and you can whip me if I misbehave."

He was gratified when Seaborn's cheeks pinked, and she shook her head, sighing, before pulling the door open and leaving. Murdock settled in, wincing against the pain in his knee, and looked around for the remote control. He switched the TV on and flipped the channels, finally settling on an episode of _Southland_. He had a long day of nothing much to do ahead of him, besides think about her legs and wonder how he was ever going to get away.

* * *

Charissa grinned when she walked into the large building that housed the Long Beach Marshal's Office. Downstairs, the front doors were being replaced, and it had taken a lot of questioning and squabbling before she was finally allowed past the security guards. She had then stepped into the elevator and listened to Donna Summers' horrifying disco version of _MacArthur Park_, only barely avoiding gagging before the lift finally reached the third floor. Someone had once explained the song to her, declaring it to be an actual classic with serious socio-political undertones, and her only response had been a baffled 'Are you _serious_? It's a _stupid_ song!'

Stepping out, she followed her nose to Marshal Buchanan's office, and was amused to see the young woman sitting at her desk, daydreaming and rubbing a tiny conch shell charm between her fingers. Buchanan's secretary looked up from filing her nails and raised her eyebrows. "Can I help you?"

"Captain Charissa Sosa, DCIS. I need to speak with Miss Buchanan."

The secretary hit a button on her phone, and Charissa heard a buzz from inside Seaborn's office, which caused the young woman to jump and cover her mouth with her hand, glaring down at the phone before she finally picked up the receiver.

"There's a Captain Sulu here to see you, Miss Buchanan."

"That's _Sosa_," Charissa corrected her, barely able to contain her laughter.

"Send her in, Carmen."

Charissa went into the office, smiled, and sat down opposite the Marshal. "Good afternoon, Miss Buchanan. Can I just call you Seaborn?"

"That'll be okay." Seaborn shuffled some papers on her desk and finally folded her hands, waiting.

"Good. Look, DCIS wants me to question Captain Murdock as soon as he can stand it and will cooperate…"

"You want to interview him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I need to confirm a few pieces of information, that's all. I won't stress him out." Seaborn's hands, locked together on her desk, tightened until her fingers turned white. She looked like the one who was stressed out, and not just because of her job, and Charissa felt a surge of real sympathy for her. "It's hard, isn't it?" she asked kindly.

"What?"

"Having to pretend we don't care, when we really do."

Seaborn stared at her, but made no denials. She looked down, pursing her lips nervously. Finally, she spread her hands on the desk and Charissa leaned forward, eager to finally have another woman to confide in. "I'm not sure what, exactly, I ought to do with Captain Murdock."

"Well…" Charissa sat back again, crossing her knees and smiling. "He could stay with you, after he's released from the hospital."

"You're joking, right? Listen, you told me this Burress guy might be released. Why would he be released, if he's charged with so many crimes?"

"The CIA wants him, and they are moving mountains to get their hands on him, so he's being moved around. By who's orders, I have no idea. I want to talk to Captain Murdock, and find out what he knows, and then I want you to talk to Burress and scare the shit out of him."

"How?" Seaborn asked, looking curious.

Sosa smiled. "Just do what you do naturally and he'll be singing like a canary."

* * *

Dr Cavanagh took a step back from the young redhead, forgetting that he was twice her size and weight, and nodded quickly. "He's in recovery right now, and everything went very well. We applied pins, screws and wires to hold the fractured ends of his patella together, and expect Mr Murd-…"

"_Captain_," she corrected him sharply.

"Captain Murdock," he nodded again. "We expect him to recover fully, with proper physical therapy, and anticipate that we can remove the pins and screws in a few months."

She rubbed her forehead, drawing in her breath and finally exhaling slowly. "All this because the doors closed."

"What?"

"Never mind. Thank you, doctor. You will call me the moment he wakes up, is that understood?"

"Absolutely, ma'am," he nodded, considering saluting her but deciding against it. She had more or less threatened him with full prosecution, jail time and huge fines if he allowed anyone unauthorized near the patient, and then had looked at him with the full force of those steely gray eyes and told him that if anything went wrong during surgery, she would do more than just throw him in jail and fine him.

Cavanagh watched her leave, admiring her legs, and shook himself. If that girl knew he had been checking her out at all, she probably would have shot him dead.

* * *

Murdock woke up yet again with no clue as to where he was or how he had got there. He blinked against the light above his bed, and tried to sit up a little to see if his leg was even still there. But the moment he moved, a hand was on his chest. "Be still, silly."

He looked up at Seaborn, who quickly removed her hand and nodded briskly, pulling herself firmly into professional mode.

"Everything went really well. Your knee is now pinned together with a bunch of screws and pins, but they can be removed as soon as the doctors are satisfied that it's healed completely. In the meantime, you'll have to have physical therapy."

"Phys…you mean some big Swedish dude named Lars'll be pushin' and pullin' around on me?" he asked uneasily, still blinking against the light and feeling a little woozy.

"No, of course not. His name is Boris. And he's from the Ukraine."

"Oh, God…that doesn't sound good. My Russian isn't great – I could tell him to stop pulling on my leg and end up telling him that the safe word is 'saddle' and that I love to have whipped cream spread on my toes. Seriously…my Russian _stinks_."

"Murdock, don't worry. Everything is fine. He speaks English. A little." She sat down in the chair by his bed. "_Saddle_?"

He rolled his eyes. "Never mind. How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Um…a few minutes," she said, crossing her knees and not looking him in the eye, which made him think she was lying. "So…I've brought you some puzzles and magazines and…what sorts of books do you like to read?"

"Classics of Western Literature," he told her loftily. "I was right in the middle of _Sense & Sensibility _when I broke my knee. I can't help but think that somehow, there's a connection."

"Oh, yes, of course. I'll snatch up all the Austen novels from the library. Anything else?"

"The other great authors, of course. Shakespeare…Dostoyevsky…Sidney Sheldon…"

"Mm." She began writing on a tablet, and he noted her surprisingly girlish script. "And do you like the tough crosswords, or the easy ones?"

"Tougher the better," he muttered. "How long am I gonna be in here?"

"Maybe three more days, tops. Then we'll be moving you to more…suitable accommodations." She cleared her throat. "In the meantime, you'll be allowed to rest and relax. Tomorrow, however, you will be having a brief interview with someone from DCIS."

"Who?" he asked her.

"You remember Captain Charissa Sosa?"

He sighed and dropped his head back on the pillow. "El Diablo…"

"She told me you'd call her that! Why do you call her that?"

"Well, she ain't Glenda the Good Witch."

Seaborn surprised Murdock then by laughing. "I can assure you, Captain, that she will do her best to avoid stressing you out, and from what I have seen of her so far, she's quite reasonable."

"Yeah, yeah…whatever." He closed his eyes, too sleepy to bicker with her. "I'm kinda tired. Maybe you can read somethin' to me, huh? Whataya got there?"

"Oh…yes." She dug around in the bag and extracted cloth-bound book. "Oh, a real-page turner! Lewis Carroll!"

"Really? Sounds interesting. Go ahead."

"'_A Syllabus of Plane Algebraic Geometry_'," she began, clearing her throat and settling back in her chair and beginning to read aloud.

Murdock was sleeping within minutes, mumbling softly about pencils, and Seaborn closed the book. For just a moment, she watched him, mesmerized, before finally very lightly touching his cheek, her fingertips only barely making contact with his skin before she pulled away, glad he hadn't been awakened.

"I promise you," she whispered. "Everything is going to be fine. _I promise_."


	17. Take It To The Mattresses

I hope this little scheme from Charissa makes sense. We'll see...

**Song reference**: _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_, by innumerable drunk singers who had to make a Christmas album. I hate this song. Not as nausea-inducing as _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ (stand still for the oncoming truck, Rudy!), but close.

And I happen to agree with Murdock's view of Santa Claus, by the way. He creeps me out.

* * *

"Okay, don't freak out. Don't freak out. Don't freak out. Gonna freak out. Gonna freak out. Freaking out. Totally freaking out…having a stroke…stop! Stop it! Stop it! Pain! Pain!"

"What kind of pain?" The doctor glanced up, concerned, at Murdock, who was chanting his bizarre mantra while his knee was being examined.

"The kind that hurts! Think of my knee as bagpipes – you stop squeezin', I stop screaming!"

Dr Cavanagh frowned at him, but finally stopped his examination. "Don't worry, Captain Murdock. The wound is healing nicely."

"Right, right…so now I'm not freaking out! No freakage here. Perfectly calm and if you poke that thing one more time I swear to God I'll hunt you down and kill you like a _dawg_…"

"Exactly," Dr Cavanagh nodded and the nurse gently covered the wound again. "That's enough for today. We'll check you before you leave Monday morning, and you will be set up for an appointment back here in about a week, to check your progress."

"Woop-dee-doo," Murdock gasped. He nodded to the nurse, who gave him a flirtatious little smile and checked his temperature and blood pressure for no particular reason, all while shoving her D-cups in his face. He glanced over her shoulder and saw Seaborn standing in the doorway, wearing faded jeans and a rather tight little Army T-shirt that definitely made him want to be all he could be. She was carrying a large bag of what looked like several books and magazines, and she looked kind of…ticked. Uh-oh - he had done something. What he had done, however, he had no clue.

"Captain Murdock," she said, her voice dripping acid. The nurse turned to look at her, then turned back to Murdock, smiling again.

"Are you comfortable, Captain Murdock?" she asked, in a breathy little voice, eyelashes fluttering.

"Uh…yeah. But I had my temp and BP taken a few minutes ago…how come you're doin' it again? And shouldn't that top button be done up? You look cold – really, you look like you need a coat, ma'am."

The nurse frowned, and Seaborn looked even more disgruntled. What had he _done_?

"Come along, Kellie, we're finished for now," Cavanagh said, gesturing toward the door. The nurse finally pulled her cleavage out of Murdock's face and turned around. Murdock could almost hear the 'bump-bump-pa-bump' of drums as the well-endowed nurse sashayed from the room, and Seaborn gave her a murderous look. The nurse lifted her nose and strode out, leaving Murdock confused and wondering if his life was now in peril, what with being alone in a room with a woman who was _clearly_ unhappy with him.

He watched her warily as she crossed her arms and glared at him. Finally, she seemed to come to a conclusion and nodded, and seemed to contemplate dropping the bag of books on his injured knee, but decided against it and placed them beside the left one.

"Hi," he said cheerfully, and thought about saying she looked hot in that outfit, but figured she might change her mind on where to put that bag of books, and chickened out. "You look…uh…um…_casual_." Hot. Definitely hot. Like, 'melt the chrome off a trailer hitch' hot. 'Stick to a couch made out of Corinthian leather' hot. 'Steam room after a good game of hoops' hot. 'Windows steaming up' hot. He looked at the ceiling. Maybe he needed to have his temperature checked after all. Besides which, this woman had been _raped_ for God's sake, and he was thinking about such things. What the hell is wrong with you, he berated himself. Get you damned mind out of the gutter!

"Feeling your oats today I see," she answered dryly. It was Saturday, and apparently this was her day off, because she wasn't in her usual 'Thrill 'Em & Kill 'Em' attire. Murdock eyed her, letting his head fall back against the pillow and wishing he could take a shower. He noted her hair tied back into a ponytail and the snug fit of her faded jeans. The woman was as trim and toned as an Olympic athlete, and he knew that in his weakened state, she could easily take him if he tried anything stupid.

Yes, indeed, he thought. Go ahead and take me, baby. He saw her raised eyebrow and was embarrassed to feel his cheeks warming. Stop it, he told himself firmly. "Huh? Oh. _Oh_. Nurse Busty there…" He shrugged. "Hey, I'm a guy. I like…uh…you know…female girl-persons and all, but…not the pushy ones, much less the ones with life-threatening breasts. I'd suffocate in those things. Plus, her name is _Kellie_. I mean…really…Kellie? Just not my type. Face'd be all over her like a cheap slut, though, believe me." He pawed eagerly at the bag of books and extracted a few at a time, glad for the distraction, and piled them on his lap. "Oh, hey! _Wealth of Nations_!"

She rolled her eyes, and he kept digging, delighted with her selections. He hadn't told her any of his preferences, so she had apparently just been guessing on what he might enjoy reading (aside from Shakespeare and Sidney Sheldon), and so far, she was right on the mark. "Oooh…_The Black Book of Communism._ I read this a coupla years ago. Really fascinatin' stuff. One hundred million dead people can't be wrong, huh?" He frowned at _Memoirs of a Geisha_, but put it aside for reading anyway, and glared at her when he found _The Bridges of Madison County_ at the bottom of the bag. He held the book up, scowling.

"I couldn't resist. I figured that was high on your must-read list," she said, her mouth twitching.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, definitely. Sunday afternoon dreck is good for the soul. So…uh…why were you mad a minute ago?"

"I wasn't mad." She sat down on the chair by his bed. He was still handcuffed to the bedrail, which irritated him a lot and seemed to kind of annoy her as well. It was chafing his wrist, for one thing, and he had to ask permission to hobble into the john.

"Yes you were. You were doing fine imitation of a nailgun. Think I'm gonna limp off with Nurse Chesty?"

She glared at him and sat back in the chair. "Captain Sosa will be here this afternoon. You will cooperate with her, won't you?"

He shrugged and began flipping through one of the books. Seaborn leaned forward. "James…"

"Okay, okay, I'll be a nice boy," he said, rolling his eyes. "Geesh…and here I thought you liked it when I was naughty. But yes, yes…I will be a perfect little angel. Butter won't melt in my mouth, I promise."

"Good." She sat back again, not looking entirely convinced.

"So what've you been doin' with yourself?" he asked her, trying to sound careless. He hadn't seen her since the afternoon before, and had been completely miserable during her absence. It did dawn on him, occasionally, that he was still effectively her prisoner, but he had decided to not pick at too many nits for now. All in all, he was being treated fairly well. Even the food wasn't that bad, and most of the staff was nice to him and even tolerated his more _interesting_ outbursts of eccentricity. Being shackled to the bed and more or less immobilized limited his activities a lot, but he had entertained the nurses that morning with a more than passable imitation of the Swedish Chef from _The Muppet Show_, and had flirted shamelessly with a few of the candy stripers – they were safe, innocent little teenagers who enjoyed his banter and teasing, and they had blushed and giggled when he kept calling them 'candy strippers'.

"Oh, nothing much. Busywork. Paperwork, mainly. Lining up a place for you to stay, in particular."

"Where am I going?" he asked for about the thousandth time.

"Someplace quiet," she nodded, and he knew she wasn't going to reveal any more. "Somewhat remote, too. Or will seem remote, considering how inaccessible you'll be to certain people."

"That hotel in Death Valley?" he asked her. "What's it called? Amorgosa Opera House and Hotel…? Saw somethin' about that on the History Channel."

"Not there, Captain. Anyway, I know you'll like where you _are_ going. It's going to have a kitchen, and since you'll be allowed to move around a bit, you can cook. Supervised, of course." Her eyes narrowed a little, and he saw a look of concern cross her face.

"Huh…" He sat back on his pillows – fluffed by the eager-to-please Kellie, whose perfume had been cloying and had made him a little sick to his stomach – and yawned, stretching. "I'll have to order certain special ingredients."

"Sorry, but antifreeze will not be on the grocery list, Captain."

He gave her a stern look. "James."

She sighed and nodded, rolling her eyes. "James."

* * *

Charissa arrived at exactly two o'clock, and paused outside the door, suddenly feeling nervous. She had had few real interactions with Captain Murdock, but she knew he was actually far superior to her, intellectually. He could, if he felt like it, grind her into dust if she pushed him too hard. The interview was going to have to be done with great care. The fact that he was also Face's best friend and didn't like her a bit wasn't going to make matters any easier.

Finally, she pushed the door open and almost burst into laughter at what she saw.

Seaborn was seated beside his bed, reading aloud from _Vogue_ magazine about the best ways to improve the looks of one's eyebrows. "If brows have been severely over-tweezed, brush the hairs in the direction of the growth, and fill in any visible patches with powder. Avoid adding to the top or bottom of the brows…"

Murdock was staring at the ceiling, clearly exasperated. "Why are you readin' this to me?" he finally burst out. "I don't pluck my eyebrows! I'm thirty-eight years old, Seaborn. I could give a _damn_. I'll worry about that when I start losin' my hair! I haven't yet, thank God, and I'm certainly not gonna encourage any of it to go away. That'd be like goin' huntin' and shootin' your own dog. And that's what separates women from men, anyhow. Y'all can shriek all ya want about how you hate your hair. We'd never say anything ulgy about ours s' long as we got any!"

"_Because_," Seaborn answered him sharply, clearly annoyed. "I got tired of _War and Peace_, and this is the second-most appropriate punishment, after a firing squad, for you. I can't believe you made me read that book. If any book could make somebody suicidal, aside from anything by Noam Chomsky, it's _that_. And all those Russian names…" She shuddered.

"I gotta practice up for Boris. And it cures insomnia. Then again, so could _Vague_…"

"_Vogue_," Seaborn corrected him.

"…magazine's tips on eyebrow maintenance. Next month's issue…'The Mysteries of That Space Between Your Upper Lip and Your Nose – How to make it look really good for that special _date_!' and 'Forty-three ways to drive him wild in bed!' As if showin' up naked hasn't worked perfectly since Eve sashayed past Adam and asked him to come help her polish her apples."

Charissa would have loved to stand there and listen to this bickering for a while longer, but she finally cleared her throat. Seaborn looked up at her and frowned a little, then stood. "I have to go, James. Behave…okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be a good boy, just like I told ya." He allowed Seaborn to readjust his bed, so that he was sitting up, and the young woman almost touched his hand, but tossed the magazine into his lap and ignored his mischievous grin and falsetto "Thanks a lot!" Charissa caught Seaborn's perfume as she passed – Vanilla Fields. Very nice, she thought, and went to the chair the young redhead had occupied.

"Captain Murdock," she said. "It's…good to see you again."

"Yeah, whatever. What's this about?" His gaze wasn't entirely hostile, but it wasn't friendly, either. "I guess I should be thankin' you for French-kissin' Face that handcuff key."

She sat back and tamped down a little flare of temper. "You don't like me, do you?"

"Can't stand ya, actually, but a favor's a favor, so whattaya want?"

Charissa sighed. "I…wanted to know everything _you_ know about Vance Burress."

"What Whoess?" His eyes narrowed a little, and Charissa shook her head.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, Captain. You were there."

"With a wobblin' noggin," he nodded. "And partial deafness in my left ear. But yeah…he was part of that whole scheme with Morrison and Pike. He was out to make a bundle, but he was just a desk jockey. Pike was the real mover and shaker in the whole deal, but Lynch and Morrison did a nifty little double-cross on Pike. Pike's dead, but don't think there's no more Black Forest flunkies skulkin' around, and _Burress_ is gonna be right eager to get back at us, doncha think?"

"But where would the money come from now?" she asked him. "The plates are back in our hands – the Treasury department's hands – and he has no way of getting them back, and I haven't heard of him having any other financial backers."

Murdock shrugged. "Revenge is sometimes a helluva lot better'n money."

She shrugged. "I don't know. All I know about revenge is that it should be served cold."

"Yeah, like gazpacho. And what's cold aside from revenge? Us – the A-Team – dead an' cold in our graves, with little crosses over 'em an' American flags flyin'. I have no doubt that Burress wants us dead, whether he gets a payoff for it or not. Us in the grave, or ground into powder more like, is what he wants, and if he gets loose, baby, he'll be comin' for us." He fixed her with a steady gaze, and Charissa saw no fear there. In the rare moments when she had spoken with him before, she had easily assessed James Murdock to be a man for whom self-doubt was a rare sentiment. In fact, he was more sure of himself and comfortable in his own skin than Face.

"I understand you are to be moved to a secret location...?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I suppose that's for the best. We don't know yet what will become of Burress. I'm doing all I can to prevent him from being released to anyone but the Marshals or DCIS. The CIA has him, _officially, _but I have a feeling he'll be out again. They might consider him an ally in catching your friends. We're still negotiating."

"Mm."

His expression was unreadable, and she leaned forward, chewing on her lip. "Why don't you like me?" Charissa asked, before she could stop herself.

He seemed surprised by her question, but was brutally honest just the same. "'Cause you were always hurtin' him," Murdock said quietly. "If you weren't bitchin' at him for somethin', you were treatin' him like he was nothin'. And he was a wreck after you ditched him." He shrugged. "I didn't like seein' that. He drank himself sick a lot, and moped around for weeks, then he slept with everything with a vagina, including what I think might have been a mannequin, tryin' to forget about you. Not that he ever did – he'd get drunk and blither about you for hours. It was cruel, what ya did, and it gave me headaches listenin' to him grieve about you. He may be a player, but he didn't deserve that kinda _burn_."

"He was…oh. I…didn't know…" She lowered her eyes, blinking back a misty veil of tears. She had screwed the whole thing up, she knew, but this wasn't the time to worry about it. _But when would it be the time? _How many times had her mother asked her why she wasn't married? Well, duh! She looked at the door and thought about Seaborn – she hoped that girl didn't make the same mistake with Murdock.

"Yeah, and then you show up outta the blue like that, actin' all badass and such…didn't improve my opinion of ya, neither, and it just got Face all lathered up again. I didn't like it. Not a bit. A little human emotion goes a long way, baby, believe me."

"I have emotions!" she objected. "I just had a job to do. _Have_ a job to do. And if he had listened to my warning, none of this would have happened. You might not even have a bunch of pins in your knee, Murdock."

He shrugged. "Life is a series of doors and windows, baby. You have to choose the ones you want to go through. If it hadn't've been this, it'd've been somethin' else, and maybe even worse. And you promised him you'd help him…us. Right? So what is your plan, O Captain my Captain?"

"You'll remain in Marshal Buchanan's custody, and I will keep you posted," she answered at last. She pulled a cellphone out of her purse. "This is for you."

"Oh, really? Thanks! Oh, cool, a Nokia! And it's a picture phone!" He began playing with it, turning it on and flipping through the apps, frowning at the selection of games first, just as she figured he'd do. He held it up and startled her by taking her picture, and snickered at her as she rolled her eyes. He opened the contacts list and frowned again when he saw Face's picture, and went right to it, checking the number. A smile briefly curled the corner of his mouth before he looked at her again, and Charissa guessed that he had memorized the number already. "Safe line, huh?"

"Yes. My number is also in there," she said. "If you hear anything, or anything happens that would be of interest, call me. Marshal Buchanan knows about it, and will allow you to call your friends when the time is right, but _not before_ she allows it, understood? No one else is to know about that phone, though. Absolutely no one."

He saluted her. "Ma'am, yes ma'am!" he barked cheekily. "I'll be as circumspect as Queen Victoria."

"I'm sure you will be."

"But then again, Queen Victoria liked her tea w' a wee bit o' whiskey, didn't she?" Murdock grinned at her, then resumed playing with his cellphone.

"I wouldn't know."

"Eh well…there's room for improvement on your education, El Diablo. Like that stupid macrobiotic diet you were on, when Face was datin' you. I mean, really…talk about bein' a big pain in the butt. Eat meat, girl, with your veggies and stop worryin' 'bout whether the carrots suffered."

Charissa sighed and sat back in the chair, studying him. He wasn't her type at all, but she could see why Seaborn liked him so much. He didn't possess matinee-idol looks, and he was usually scruffy, but there was a definite sexiness about him – a dangerous, primal virility, and his self-confidence would be appealing to lots of women. Plus, he also possessed real sweetness, warmth and good-natured charm, which was pretty rare in a guy who had been through all he had endured.

Even Charissa had to admit that he had the prettiest green eyes she'd ever seen…and a really cute butt to boot. He and Seaborn were a lot alike, in fact, she realized. They were both tough, and had both been kicked around a lot in life but came through it strong and resolved, and ready for another fight. Yet neither of them seemed to possess any degree of arrogance or selfishness. Even Seaborn's hostility was just an act, from what Charissa had been able to ascertain. Underneath all that steely determination was a kind-hearted and tender young woman, and Sosa had liked her from the very start. In the past two days, the two women had even developed something of a friendship, though there was still a little ice to break between them.

She leaned forward again. "Listen, I promised Face I would help him. That includes you and Hannibal and B.A., okay? You'll just have to trust me."

He made a vague 'hrmph' sound and continued playing with the cellphone, and she got up to leave. She was opening the door when he suddenly whistled – a sharp, high sound that startled her. It wasn't a wolf-whistle. It sounded more like a warning.

"If this ends up messin' up Seaborn's career, or gettin' her hurt in _any_ way, I'll do some damage to ya, baby."

Charissa saluted him and left. Murdock put the cell phone in the drawer by his bed and turned the TV on. Another Law & Order marathon. He sighed and tried to find _Jeopardy__!_ instead.

* * *

Seaborn sat in the little interrogation room, calmly reading over Vance Burress's file. She couldn't say she was impressed with his record so far, and from his photograph, he looked more like a frat boy gone wrong than a criminal mastermind. But dangerous men rarely look terribly dangerous. Adolf Hitler couldn't have lifted anything heavier than a greyhound, and millions had died at his orders.

She was wearing a white blouse and black skirt – short, sharp and distracting, Charissa had told her. She swallowed, remembering the last time she had dressed this way to catch a man's interest. She looked around the room, noting the two-way mirror, where she knew Charissa and several prison guards were watching and listening. Quickly, she batted away her unease and continued reading.

The door finally opened, and Vance Burress, wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, was led into the room by two large and imposing guards. His hands and feet were in shackles. When he saw her, he stopped in his tracks, staring at her, before grinning.

"Please tell me this is a conjugal visit."

"Hardly." She slapped the file shut. "My name is Seaborn Buchanan, and I am a United States Marshal."

"Really? Cool. Seaborn? Interesting name. Very sexy." He looked her over carefully, and she pushed aside her feeling of general _creepiness_. This guy was a piece of work. Posing as a CIA agent was one thing. Pretending he was tough was another. Desk jockey, she thought, and gestured for him to sit down. A guard pulled the chair out and Burress sat, grinning at her. "I don't get many visitors here. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"The A-Team, Mr Burress. I understand you had dealings with them recently?"

His expression hardened. He's "What about it?"

"Well, considering they are currently on the run, I would think you would find them extremely fascinating individuals. I believe they obtained some very important _objects_ from you?"

Burress frowned. "There's no proof that I possessed anything for them to take."

She smiled. "Really? There's plenty of evidence. Along with several federal crimes you've committed, that's nothing compared to conspiracy, murder and attempted murder, hm?"

"I never killed anybody," he said with a shrug.

"Right. And nothing's on paper, either, is it? How convenient."

"And you have nothing to pin on me. Either way, lack of paperwork is very efficient."

"Yes. _Efficient_. And so were the Nazis, Mr Burress. Tell me, for what organization were you actually working, aside from SAD? You were at one point with the CIA, but information seems slightly spotty. Not that that's surprising."

"I'm CIA _and_ SAD," he said. "They're just being difficult about a few things right now, and have left me to stew in this place." He looked around the room, disdainful of his current living arrangements.

"Difficult? Who is being difficult? The CIA? They don't need to worry about their reputations, Mr Burress. And from what I understand, your using the name of another CIA operative while violating more laws and acts than a Vegas street walker would tend to rather _displease_ them and cause them to perhaps be less than delighted with the prospect of cutting you a deal."

Burress's frown deepened. Seaborn leaned forward, fixing him with a hard gaze.

"Surely you've thought about that, Mr Burress. You've had plenty of time. And you and I both know what the CIA _can_ do with a body if they decide they want to be rid of it. I understand you were impersonating an agent by the name of Lynch? Think he might be kind of PO'd right now? I've heard a little about him – kind of big guy, and strangely, rather honest for a CIA spook."

"I'd think the CIA would be more interested in catching the A-Team," he finally said.

"Mr Burress, you're playing games here. Some frat-boy version of war games, scoring points by blowing up buildings, stealing plates, killing innocent men…all very cute, I might add. But the men you tried to kill aren't what I'd call easy marks. You honestly thought that the A-Team would just roll over and play dead? You think they aren't gunning for you now?"

"They can't reach me," Burress said, lifting his chin.

"Really? And if the CIA – which has no use for you any more - releases you, where will you go? Home to mommy? Does she have many weapons to defend you aside from a killer apple pie recipe? If I were you, Mr Burress, I would take my chances with the Federal Marshals office, rather than the A-Team. We'll just take you to D.C. for a proper, quiet little trial and then see that you're locked away, nice and safe, for the rest of your life."

Burress glared at her, and Seaborn knew had hit the mark. "I am not spending the rest of my life in prison. The A-Team stole those plates and isn't it your job to catch them?"

"Yes, it is. But I'm chasing them because they're federal fugitives, not because of the plates, which have been returned, and the evidence indicates that they weren't guilty of any wrongdoing, aside from causing the sort of chaos they're good at. And you'll be very interested to know I caught one of them already. The net is closing on the other three."

"You caught Smith?" he asked, looking interested.

"Not Smith."

Burress sat back, thinking carefully. "Which one, then?"

"I can't imagine that it makes any difference to you. The one in custody can testify regarding your attempt to kill him and his friends in Germany, and of course, there's the whole brou-haha at the L.A. Docks to discuss, hm?" She stood, picking up the file. "Good afternoon, Mr Burress. I'm sure you've got some serious thinking to do now."

She left the room and stood in the hall for a moment, waiting, and wasn't surprised to see Agent Lynch emerge from the room where Charissa was waiting. "Marshal Buchanan. Very good interview, ma'am."

"Thank you, sir."

"I understand you have Captain James Murdock in your custody now?"

"Yes."

He paused, studying her for a moment, apparently sizing her up. He finally seemed satisfied and smiled. "Tell him hello for me, will you? It's been a while since I've seen him."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and Lynch shrugged.

"Eh…it was a long time ago. He did a little flying for us, in the past – late nineties, May of oh-one and in June of oh-four. Captain Murdock is one hell of a pilot, and his language skills were very useful to us – his Arabic is flawless…and so is his Swahili. Ask him about Nairobi. He'll probably just start laughing. What a disastrous success that was. A burning mud fort, a naked, screaming slave trader, a flatulent camel and a stable full of priceless Arabian horses was all we got in the end, but a nasty little human trafficking operation got shut down with extreme prejudice. Top-notch precision bombing, I must say. Not a single one of those horses had so much as a speck of dust on them, and he had to come in awfully hot and fast in a bomber that, now that I think about it, wasn't fit for flying at all. He called it a Pinto with wings."

"Does the A-Team know…?" she asked, having to lean against the wall for support.

"I don't know. And by the way, the crazy bit? Mainly just an act, though there are a few…issues, definitely. Smartest man I ever met, Miss Buchanan, and when displeased, he can do some damage. Just ask that dude in Brazil. Or…well, you can't, 'cause he's dead."

"Yes…yes, I…I can imagine," she nodded weakly.

Lynch grinned at her and strolled down the hallway. She went into the next room and Charissa smiled at her.

"That went really well," she said with a nod. "Let's go get some coffee."

* * *

Murdock had dozed off during episode #9386 of Law & Order and dreamed about Pinocchio. He was startled awake by a hand on his forehead, and sat up with a shout. He glared at Seaborn, who sat down on the chair by his bed and crossed her knees, looking completely unapologetic for waking him. He glanced at the clock – it was past midnight.

"So how'd it go?" he asked her.

"How did what go?"

"Oh, now, let's see…your appointment at the spa, then there was the spinning class and Tai-Chi…oh, and your interview with Burress."

"How did you know about that?" she asked him, looking surprised.

"Just a stab in the dark." His eyes narrowed. "I don't like you goin' near him. He's a nasty little piece of work."

"I'll say, and I can take care of myself, thank you." She sat back, relaxing. She was wearing a white silk blouse and a black pencil skirt, and looked good enough to eat – she was wearing high heels, which did amazing things for her already stunning legs. "It went fairly well, though. Oh…and I met a friend of yours."

"A friend of mine? Where?" He turned the TV off and sat up, adjusting the bed again, yelping when he brought it too far forward and almost crushed himself, and finally got it upright and comfortable.

"Agent Lynch?" She watched for a reaction, but he showed none. "He said to mention Nairobi."

"Oh…" He snickered, and shook his head. "I thought I recognized him, from back at the docks. Didn't place him, though, considerin' my head was still ringin'. Yeah…yeah…Nairobi. Twenty-five Arabian broodmares, nineteen cute little foals, and three stallions that we didn't have a damn clue what to do with. Release 'em into the desert? That wouldn't've seemed right, so we had an auction. Sold one to the King of Sweden. Practiced my Swedish on the buying agent. Bought her a drink and...uh...some chocolate."

Seaborn rolled her eyes. "He said you speak excellent…Swahili?"

"Er…yeah." He scratched his ear. "My knee hurts."

"Changing the subject…"

"Hey, it was a simple op. Nothin' serious. Well…yeah, _serious_. Slave trade's still goin' strong in some parts of the world. You'd be shocked outta your panties, believe me, at the crap people can pull on each other. Let's face it – for the most part, people suck. Cynical, but true."

"So you've done work for the CIA?" she asked him mildly.

"Not _officially_. I speak a buncha languages, and can fly anything, so they found me useful. No biggie."

"Does Hannibal know?"

"I suspect he does," he shrugged. "Like I said…no biggie." He finally looked at her. "Hey, Santa Claus is also a CIA spook, y'know, and I don't see you gettin' all huffy with _him_."

"_Santa Claus_?"

" Yeah. You know…'_He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake. He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake!'" _No wonder kids scream when they have to sit on his lap. He scares me half to death, and I haven't sat on his lap in almost two years."

Seaborn covered her mouth with her hand and started giggling, and he blew out his cheeks, relieved.

"You really are crazy, you know that?" she told him.

"Well, that's what the reports all say."

"And yet…" She shook her head. "There's a few people – including Agent Lynch – who are of the opinion that a lot of it is just an act."

He shrugged. "And what is your opinion?" he asked her. "Do you really think I'm crazy?"

"I think…I think everybody's a little crazy. Some more than others. It's how we cope with the rest of the world that determines our _degree_ of crazy."

"Hm." He nodded. "I have a friggin' degree in crazy. Of course…I did take one-oh-one courses in college, on psychology. I found out what made Miss Adelaide sneeze in _Guys and Dolls_ and what 'take it to the mattresses' means from _The Godfather_. It's _all_ psychology."

Seaborn sighed and started laughing helplessly. "Captain Murdock, one of these days, I'm going to have to get you drunk and make you tell me your life story. I have a feeling it's quite fascinating."

"James," he told her firmly, giving her one of his patented mischievous grins.

She grinned back, shaking her head. "_James_."


	18. A Tall Russian

Not even my Berlitz _'Russian for Travelers'_ book really gave me good phonetic Russian. So again, when Murdock and his physical therapist are speaking Russian (with him speaking it very badly!), it's in _italics_. Seriously, his Russian is laughably awful and I tried to write it as such.

I guess this is a filler, even if it's a lot longer than I thought it would be. In fact, I had a few doubts about it, but it does move things along nicely, I think.

* * *

Murdock had a firm set of rules about how he treated women.

First off, he was not a grabber. Not once in his life had he made unwelcome moves on a woman- not even in his teens, when his hormones had been running wild. He had always had little better than disdain for guys who copped feels and made passes at girls that weren't showing any signs of mutual interest, and had knocked a few of those guys on their butts for doing it if they got too forceful.

Secondly, he had always preferred to get actually get to know the girl he was interested in before he brought up the subject of sex. Growing up, he had been one of those guys who actually possessed the ability to talk to girls, and often he had found himself the one doing the actual talking between another guy and a girl. Only problem was that, more often than not, he had been the one the girl ended up interested in and suddenly he had what could only be called a _difficult situation_. Or better yet, a complete mess. He didn't relish losing friends, after all, but the hormones would come into play and it frequently got very, very complicated when he would finally surrender to hormones and temptation. As he had aged, however, he had firmly refused to get involved in those kinds of games and did his own pursuing.

Last but not least, he never continued with any kind of pursuit of a woman if she clearly indicated that she was not interested. If she said 'no', then that was that, and he would cut his losses and bow out gracefully.

All in all, Murdock viewed women as potential friends, rather than future bedmates. He let other guys do the one-night stands and the tireless skirt-chasing, and they frequently came to grief for playing around so much, whether through enraged husbands and boyfriends or pregnancy or some kind of VD. Face had that field of study wrapped up, but had yet to learn to stop playing such potentially lethal games. Hannibal played the 'love 'em and leave 'em' game but was clearly a rather lonely and even slightly frustrated man, while B.A…well, Murdock had no idea what kind of game plan B.A. had, and was frankly afraid to ask. From what he did know, however, B.A. had had his fair share of success with the opposite sex but was quite discreet about it.

He was lying on his hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the women he had been involved with over the years. _Not that many_, he realized. In between stays in mental hospitals and traveling around the globe, there hadn't been much time for romance. A little sex, yes, but not much romance. And the sex certainly wasn't very frequent, but he had never gotten any complaints in that department. He was anything but promiscuous, but if a chance for sex was waved right under his nose, he wasn't going to hold up a cross, screaming "Get back!" Sometimes it was a matter of scratching an itch, or a means of alleviating a bout of loneliness, and a couple of them had actually come within a few inches of being a real…_something_.

The subject of sex had, of course, been on his mind quite a lot recently. A man couldn't lie on his back in a hospital bed, being read to by a luscious redhead with a Tennessee drawl and_ not _think about sex. Moreover, he thinking about something he had never experienced before, and which he didn't know how to deal with – in fact, that _something_ scared the hell out of him, because he figured he would be pretty lousy at it. Hell, he had declared his feelings to her back in Iraq, except he had done it in a language she didn't speak, and he couldn't see himself translating it without stumbling over the words and making a fool of himself in the process.

The main, seemingly insurmountable, problem was that said luscious redhead had been attacked, and no matter what Dr Bailey had said back in Iraq, Murdock still felt that he was much to blame for what had happened. He had signed off on Seaborn getting involved in the whole deal with those weapons dealers, and he had not been able to get to her in time.

She was reading to him now, in her clear, sweet, almost musical voice. It was Sunday night, and tomorrow morning, he would be leaving the hospital for an as yet undisclosed location, where she would continue to watch over him day and night. That notion gave him a lot to think about – he would be alone in some 'undisclosed location' with a beautiful young woman who turned him on, and yet there were all those horrifying images still in his head, of her being assaulted by a monster. It wasn't her fault, he knew. She was the only innocent one in this whole damned mess, and yet every time he thought about making any kind of move, the sound of her screaming and sobbing rang in his head, and made him uneasy about trying again with her. What if he frightened her? Or worse, what if he hurt her? And of course, what if she didn't want him at all? He wouldn't blame her about that, but it would still be hard to deal with. After all, he had planned for a nice, romantic dinner with her that very night, and if it all had worked out like he had hoped, he would have woke up the next morning with her in his arms.

Instead…

"_… a silence during which the tick of the monumental ormolu clock on the white marble mantelpiece grew as loud as the boom of a minute-gun. Archer contemplated with awe the two slender faded figures, seated side by side in a kind of viceregal rigidity, mouthpieces of some remote ancestral authority which fate compelled them to wield, when they would so much rather have lived in simplicity and seclusion, digging invisible weeds out of the perfect lawns of Skuytercliff, and playing Patience together in the evenings…_"

She was reading to him from _The Age of Innocence_, a book he had read in college and still rather liked, even after almost twenty years. He could still quote passages from it, because of his irritatingly photographic memory. It was the same photographic memory that kept bringing up images and sounds of that night, as well as sensations from the nights of the week before her attack. He could still feel her hands shyly touching his face as they kissed, and of her in his arms as he gave her dancing lessons. All in all, the two separate and distinct memories were clouding up everything in his head and making him miserable, because he had no point of reference to consult on how to cope with it, and he doubted that even Face would know what to do.

"What?" Seaborn asked him, jerking him from his thoughts.

He jumped and looked at her, gulping. "Huh? Oh. Uh…nothing. Go on."

She dog-eared the page and closed the book. "I'm pretty tired, James. I really need to get home and feed my cat."

He glanced at the clock. It was ten o'clock. "Oh. Right. Sorry. You don't have to do that, you know. Stay so long, I mean. I…I mean, I don't mind if you…I mean, it's pretty boring otherw-…I mean…thanks. Thanks." Yes, and your _English_ linguistic skills remain unmatched, Captain, he thought bitterly.

Seaborn nodded and started to gather up her things – her coat and her purse, checking her Glock in its holster behind her back. "I don't mind," she finally shrugged. "It's been a long time since I've read that book."

"Wharton's a good writer," he nodded. "Kind of lyrical, to me."

She smiled softly. "I think so, too. I've always liked her, and Henry James. And C.S. Lewis. I've memorized _The Screwtape Letters_. It's really no wonder I'm a Marshal."

He laughed. "Chasin' the Devil, huh? Good idea. He needs a right good ass-whuppin'."

"Every time I catch a criminal, I think I've given the Devil his due."

He looked at her. "Is that how you felt when you caught me?"

"No." She handed him the book. "That's not what I felt at all. You really should get some sleep. I know they've given you some pills to help you go to sleep. Would you like to take them? I can get you some water…"

"Uh…thanks…" He nodded, knowing he would never get to sleep on his own. She went into the bathroom and filled a cup with tapwater and brought it out to him, holding it out carefully. His fingers brushed hers as he took it and she watched him swallow the pills. When she started to leave, he caught her hand. "Seaborn…I…"

"It's okay." She didn't pull away from him, though. Just stood there, staring down at her hand clasped in his.

"No, it's not. It's not okay. We…ought to at least…_talk_…about…about what happened in Iraq. It was my fault, Seaborn. I…"

"How was it your fault? Al-Murad's the one who raped me, not you or anyone else."

"But I signed off…"

She sighed, looking down, clearly struggling to maintain her self-control. "I said some awful things to you, James. I was terrible."

"You had been _raped_," he said, his voice shaking. He had been avoiding the subject for too long, pushing it aside and enjoying his time with her. But now, he needed to ask her forgiveness. It was, he decided, the only way he could move on now. "You had every right to be angry at me."

Gently, she pulled her hand away from his and looked around the room, neither of them feeling awkward, but both unsure of how to go about this conversation. Finally, she sat down in the chair, clasping her hands in front of her. "I wasn't angry at you. I was angry at…everything. Fate, God, whatever…just angry, period. I took it out on you, and I'm sorry. They were such pretty daisies, too, and I ruined them."

He drew in his breath, astounded that she would be apologizing to him. "So…so you're not…"

"I'm not angry any more. Dr Bailey – the base shrink? – he told me to grieve for what I lost and…and for what could have been, and to move forward and make al-Murad nothing to me any more, and to make my own 'what can be', and after a while, and after some pretty intense therapy, I did. And al-Murad's nothing to me. I…I still have nightmares sometimes. You can't control what your mind does when you're asleep, but…I don't think about him. I don't see his face or anything, even in my nightmares." She saw his alarmed expression, and shook her head. "Don't worry. He doesn't come back any more, when I'm awake. Talking about it isn't half as bad as you'd think. I can deal. I've had tons of therapy and…it all helped. I'm still in a survivor's group. When it gets tough or the nightmares are too frequent, I go and I talk and it's…better."

"Oh." _She had seen Dr Bailey too?_

"Plus, I'm a black belt in karate and have a punching bag in the guest room of my apartment." She grinned at him. "Does that surprise you?"

"The punching bag? Not really. But talking about it…it does a little," he nodded. "I can't even imagine…"

"Stop blaming yourself. I don't want you to imagine, either. It's not something anyone should have to imagine. So don't do it. It's not worth it. It's giving al-Murad more power than he ever deserved. Last I heard, another prisoner stabbed him in the…uh…" She gestured downwards and he hazarded a little smile.

"Yeah, I heard about that. No thumbs, and nothing to hold on to, either."

She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, snickering. "So now, all of his power is gone. He's nothing now. Never was anything to begin with. I survived, and I'll keep surviving. And if anybody ever tries that with me again, _I'll_ be the one shooting his thumbs off. And a few other parts as well."

He smiled at her. "Good for you, baby. But I pray to God it never happens."

"So do I."

Finally, shyly, she reached out and touched his hand again, and he turned her hand over, rubbing his thumb across her palm, noting that she still had some calluses from her days of hard manual labor. He looked up at her, and saw her cheeks were pink. "I think…I think we both know what would have happened if it hadn't been for…"

The door suddenly opened and a nurse came in. "Oh. Miss Buchanan, it's way past visiting hours. You really should…"

Seaborn pulled her hand away and nodded. "Yes. I was reading to Captain Murdock," she said quickly, grabbing her coat and purse. "Edith Wharton makes time fly."

"Right, right…" Murdock said, settling back against his pillows again and thinking that nurses must have been trained on how to have really bad timing. Seaborn gave him a shy little smile and left. The nurse studied him, raising an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Nothing. You've already taken your sleeping pills?"

"Yeah."

"Good. You're being released at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. So lights out, and get some rest."

"Yeah. Sure."

The nurse turned the light by his bed off, and he closed his eyes, letting the drugs take effect and slowly drifted away into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Seaborn had to admit, it was rather amusing to see James in such a state. He was growling at the nurses who were insisting he get into the wheelchair, and he all but hissed at the doctor who gave him a stack of prescriptions for pain (along with something for depression). His leg was wrapped in a hinged cast, and he was sitting there now, looking like he was on the verge of a serious hissy fit. Clearly, being told what to do was not his favorite thing in the world. He was, by nature, a rebel.

"James, please behave. Dr Cavanagh, when will the physical therapist come?" she asked.

James stuck his tongue out at her, but she ignored him.

"This afternoon, for a preliminary assessment. Right now, we want Captain Murdock to simply rest. We have his crutches here, and he ought to be able to make his way around when necessary, but he really ought to be as quiet as possible and stay off his feet."

"And he's right here in the room!" Murdock snapped, waving his hand. "This happens to be my body, doc. I've been livin' in it for thirty-eight years. I know what I can and can't do! And I can speak and listen for myself, thanks."

"My apologies, Captain," Cavanagh said, glancing at Seaborn. "For the next three months or so, no strenuous exercise, no kneeling…"

"Well, that'll cut right into my prayer schedule," Murdock said sourly.

"You can pray on your back," Seaborn reminded him brightly. "Thank you, Doctor. Nurse, we're ready to go."

Murdock's paper sack, containing the clothes he'd worn into the ER five days before, was dropped into his lap. Seaborn and her team grabbed up the two bags of his books and magazines, and she had Ripley and Shore take up positions in front of the wheelchair, while she and Christine walked behind, with Kellie of the D-Cups pushed the wheelchair. Murdock, holding his bag of meager possessions, could only grumble impatiently as he was wheeled down the hall toward the exit. A big black Cadillac was waiting for them, and Murdock rolled his eyes as the two Marshals went out to make sure it was safe before he was pushed out the door. A little flock of nurses helped Murdock out of the wheelchair and into the back seat. Seaborn went around to the other side and got in beside him. Shore took the wheel, and he saw Ripley and Magnusson get into an SUV behind them.

"You'd think I was the President, with this much security," he said.

"You're still considered a serious flight risk," she said. "Pardon the pun."

He laughed out loud and began playing with the automatic windows. Shore hit the 'child-proof lock' button and Murdock frowned as the window went back up.

"You are just no fun!" he said. Shore grinned and Seaborn breathed a sigh of relief. Murdock glanced down at her knees, took a deep breath, and looked out the window as they headed out of Long Beach and toward Los Angeles. "Where are we going?" he asked her again.

"You'll see."

* * *

"Wow…swimmin' pools, movie stars…I'm a Beverly Hillbilly!"

He looked around the huge, luxurious resort cottage and grinned, his bad mood of earlier that morning evaporating with the L.A. smog. He popped a wheelie in his wheelchair and zoomed around the marble foyer, then rolled into the living room. "Aha…fireplace. And a baby grand piano…full stereo setup, wide-screen TV…gee, I should be a federal fugitive more often!"

"Don't think this is anything permanent, Captain," Seaborn reminded him. He turned to look at her, eyes narrowing. "Sorry…James. The Federal Marshals are paying for this, so try to keep room service to a minimum. No porn rentals on the TV, either, but there is full satellite link. You do not have internet access, and only approved hotel personnel and certain medical staff will have access to this suite while you're here."

He was being housed at a large resort cottage outside L.A., and he was already wheeling out to the stone-flagged deck overlooking the private pool, eager to explore his new digs. The grounds were beautiful, private and secluded, with large pines and oaks surrounding the house, and he had a view of a golf course and tennis courts in the distance. He scanned the area, and she knew he was memorizing his surroundings. A true Ranger, she thought, shaking her head. "Let's go back inside."

He sighed and rolled back into the living room, whistling. "Nice view, anyway." He eyed the other three Marshals milling around, setting up various things and talking amongst themselves, and Seaborn sat down on the couch.

"This is your new home for the foreseeable future," she told him. "I think you'll like it here."

"Where will you be staying?" he asked her.

"This is a three-bedroom cottage. I will be…be staying here at all times."

"Round the clock?" He stared at her, a little wide-eyed. "Do I need that much babysitting?"

"You are an extremely high flight-risk," she reminded him, getting up and straightening her clothes.

"Well, then, shouldn't you sleep with me?"

The question hung in the air between them, and Christine looked up from her laptop, where she was working on some kind of report. Seaborn somehow kept herself from blushing and became brisk. "You will be handcuffed to your bed at night, of course, and during the day you will be allowed to move about the…the…"

"Cabin?"

"_The cottage_," she said sharply, ignoring Christine's raised eyebrows. "I will not be sleeping with you, of course. Don't be…be…ridiculous. Don't forget that you are, officially, a prisoner of the United States Federal Marshals. At some point you will be…um…transferred elsewhere."

"Oh yeah. Where they've got chirping birds and basket weavers and nice young men in their clean white coats…they're coming to take me away, haha! But the handcuff thing…isn't that a violation of my rights? I mean, it's not like I can get out of here without bein' pretty damned conspicuous. 'High-speed pursuit of man in wheelchair, live on Channel Five!' sounds kinda ridiculous, doncha think?"

"I didn't make this rule," she told him firmly.

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Oh."

Christine finally stood up. "Well, it's lunchtime. I think we'll leave for now. Is there anything else we should…uh…do? Get something for you, Mr Murdock?"

"That's Captain Murdock!" Seaborn and Murdock said in unison, both annoyed.

"Right…right…exactly. Anyway…I'll leave you two alone…for now." Christine backed out of the room and left them staring at each other. Finally, Seaborn broke the stalemate by turning and heading into the kitchen. Murdock wheeled after her, and she glared at him, tapping her foot on the Mexican tiles.

"Well?" he finally asked. "What's for lunch?"

"Gruel and stale bread."

"Had that already. Turkish prison. We caught a rat…"

"Enough! I don't want to know! How about macaroni and cheese?"

"Eww…no. What do I look like, a twelve-year old? Can you cook?" he asked, giving her a narrow look.

"Of course I can cook! I'm from the South!" she snapped. "And no, you don't look like a twelve-year old."

"Thirty-eight. Wild, wooly and hard to curry," he nodded. "You're what now…twenty…eight?"

"Almost."

"Just a baby. When's your birthday?"

"August tenth."

"A Leo!" He grinned, moving the wheelchair forward and back, spinning and popping wheelies with remarkable ease. She wondered if he had been confined to wheelchairs before, because he was awfully comfortable in it.

"Don't tell me you believe in that hogwash."

"Not really. But there's definitely something to it, doncha think? I mean, Leos are described as…lemme think…photographic memory booting…ruling planet is the sun…"

"Except the sun isn't a planet. It's a star."

"Yeah, whatever, shaddup already. Symbol…the lion. Element…_fire_."

"Hm." She turned and went to the cabinet to search around for something to eat. "What about you?" she asked, finally settling on a can of Campbell's Chunky chicken and corn chowder. She held it out to him, waggling the can and waiting for his verdict.

"I don't care. I'm not even that hungry. November twenty-seventh. Sagittarius. Ruling planet, Jupiter. Symbol, the archer. Element…fire." He grinned at her and did another wheelie. Seaborn got a pan out of the cabinet and popped the can open, letting the stuff slide out into the pan and turning the burner on. After a few moments of tapping her fingers moodily on the rangetop, the soup began to bubble nicely. She stirred the soup, and felt him watching her. Seaborn figured she ought to be offended at being practically leered at by a man, but instead, it made her heart beat a little faster.

"So what do we do now?" he finally asked her.

"I've got at least three different reports to write, and you can watch TV. There's a pretty good stock of DVD's, I think…"

"But I'm bored!" he said, thumping his fists on the armrests of the wheelchair. "Watch a movie with me!"

"James…"

"Please…please…_please_? I'll be a good boy, I promise. No groping, copping of feels, or strategic placement of arms after yawning. Scouts Honor." He held up two fingers.

"You're doing that wrong. It's three fingers, and I happen to know you were a Scout for exactly one week, until you practically drove that poor Scoutmaster crazy by _deliberately_ misspelling certain words during semaphore practice."

He huffed, crossing his arms. "I was being realistic! Folks aren't great at spelling, you know. And for God's sake, we were doing semaphore signals for people in a field two hundred yards away. We just had to yell and they could hear us! And that was all in my profile? Talk about bein' thorough…"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, it was all in the report. You were spelling words like 'Heap' and 'Herp'. Plus you had sixteen other Boy Scouts laughing so hard none of them could stand up. And then you waited until the Scoutmaster was asleep and tied him up with knots they _didn't_ teach you."

"He liked to never got out," Murdock nodded. "Finally had to use a knife. He was crying by then." He rubbed his nose, feeling a little frisson of guilt for that. "Which proved that he really had no business being a Scoutmaster, don't think you? Sixteen ten-year olds makin' a grown man cry. I think I did 'em all a favor."

"You were proving that you were a troublemaker. A _scoundrel_, from the very start."

"Yes, I can be a scoundrel. Not totally…but I suspect you've made a few hardened criminals cry y'self." He sighed, then perked up. "But you like me anyhow…don't you?"

Seaborn blushed a little and tucked an errant strand of red hair behind her ear. "I…I suppose," she finally said, stirring the soup. He watched her, gripping the armrests, and she finally looked at him again. "What?"

"So…uh…you will be living here?"

"Yes. Until the Marshals decide what to do with you, or until the rest of the A-Team is caught, whichever comes first. That means I won't be in on the chase, unfortunately, or they would be caught in the next couple of days."

He frowned. "And what about Burress? What if he's cut loose?"

"We'll be ready for him, James. Now…" She tested the soup and found it satisfactorily warm. She ladled him a bowl of the creamy soup and dug a can of Dr Pepper out of the fridge. A search of the pantry yielded Ritz crackers, which she placed on a tray beside the bowl of soup and his drink, and handed him the tray. "Come on. What do you want to watch on TV?"

"I won't eat that until you sit down with me," he said firmly, crossing his arms. "I'll hold my breath 'til you say yes!" He inhaled deeply and pinched his nose.

Seaborn sighed. She really wasn't all that keen on writing those reports. Finally, she sighed and sat down on the couch. He was already grabbing the remote control and flipping through the channels. "Oh, cool…_District 9_. Great movie. It was nominated for an Oscar…shoulda won, too. Can you remember what movie did win? Neither can I."

"Too violent." She kicked her shoes off.

"Aw, hell…good point. It is kinda rough for a Monday afternoon. Okay, okay…_Rugrats_?"

She gave him an exasperated stare and sat down on the couch. Murdock rolled over, put the tray on the coffee table, and positioned himself carefully before scooting out of the wheelchair and onto the couch beside her. He gingerly set his foot on the table and stretched out. Seaborn had to resist an almost overwhelming urge to snuggle up again him and lay her head on his chest. The very thought startled her immensely, and she had to sit up straight.

"What?"

"Um…"

"Don't tell me you've changed your mind? C'mon…I'll pick a movie. Let me see here…" He flipped through the movie channels and finally found something good. "_Shrek_!"

"Okay, okay," she nodded. "_Shrek_. I always identified with the dragon."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, and relaxed. They were both snickering at the _Welcome to Duloc_ song when the doorbell rang. She got up, hand on her Glock, and went to the door, glancing at her watch. Oh, yeah, the physical therapist. She was nonetheless cautious, and opened the door just a crack. Bewildered, she opened the door a little more and stared at the tall, statuesque young blonde standing there.

"Yes?"

"I am Borislava Dunyetkova…the physical therapist."

"No, you're not," Seaborn shook her head, opening the door all the way. This willowy blonde from the Steppes was a _physical therapist_? "You can't be a physical therapist."

"Who is it?" Murdock yelled from the couch.

"They said your name was Boris Dunyetkov," Seaborn snapped. "Boris was a man." She looked Borislava over, eyes narrowing. "You are not a man!"

"No, I am not," Borislava answered, shaking her head. "I am a woman. Hear me roar?" She smiled at Seaborn, but that didn't seem to work. Seaborn was extremely unhappy with this, and her temper was not improved when Murdock wheeled into the foyer and grinned happily at Borislava.

"_Hi! Afternoon is good, very, yes?_"

Borislava looked startled, but smiled and nodded. "You speak Russian, sir?"

"_Tiny. Poverty. Ill extremely_."

The therapist looked like she was about to burst into laughter. "Ah. I am the physical therapist, Borislava Dunyetkova. You are Mr Murdock, yes?"

"_Yes. Captain_." He smiled warmly, and caught Seaborn's furious gaze. He held out his hand to the blonde, who took it and shook firmly, making his eyes widen a little at her strong grip. "_Is doing therapy machines on…_er_…knee_?"

"Yes. But I speak English…no need to try your Russian on me." She looked at Seaborn, then at Murdock. She raised her eyebrow at Murdock and grinned. "_I think she is jealous. She also looks rather lethal. Has a gun, I see__._"

"Right. Right." Murdock nodded, glancing at Seaborn, whose arms where crossed. She did look rather displeased. "How long ya been doin' this?" he asked, turning his attention back to Borislava.

"Five years now. Shall we begin?"

Seaborn stepped back, looking even less pleased, but when she called Friarson, she found that Borislava was indeed the actual physical therapist, and that there had been no mistake. "It's not my fault you didn't look at her entire file, much less the box marked 'female'," her boss told her sharply. "She's clean, and she's got an excellent reputation. So no, you are not allowed to shoot her."

"I never said I was gonna to do _that_!" Seaborn snapped, and hung up. "I'll just strangle her if she…if she…oh, damn!" she whispered, glancing at the baby grand and thinking about piano wire. She watched as Borislava and James began chatting amiably about St Petersburg, where he had been a few times in the past. Seaborn threw her cellphone on the table by the front door and stalked into her bedroom, needing to be alone, so she could get started on her damned reports.


	19. Wheelie

Good times here, for Murdock & Seaborn, but unhappy stuff ahead. Next - Murdock finally gets to talk to his friends again! Yay!

* * *

Face paced back and forth, listening in despair as Charissa's phone rang and rang. He was ready to give up and throw his cell phone in the pool when he finally heard her voice.

"Charissa? Hey, baby! How's it goin'?"

"Very well, and I'm in a _meeting_!" she hissed.

"Oh. Well, you know how meetings impede all human progress. Can you tell me _anything_?" he said, hoping he sounded pitiful enough that she would give him some little morsel of news.

"I can tell you that…uh…everything is going extremely well."

"So he's okay? You're sure he's okay? Have you seen him?"

"It's all fine. Progress is being made," she answered.

"Is he walking yet?"

"I don't know. Just a minute…do you mind if I step outside? Thanks…" Face heard shuffling and crackling before she finally came back on the line. "Listen, he's doing well, okay? I saw Seaborn yesterday, he's got a physical therapist coming in some time soon, but I don't know when, and he looked okay when I talked to him…"

"Seaborn? Who the hell is Seaborn?"

"The woman taking care of Murdock. The redhead? Seaborn Buchanan."

"Oh…wait a minute…the Hellcat? Her name is _Seaborn_?"

"Yes," she answered, sounding exasperated. "I don't have much time here. I'll tell Seaborn to let him call you tonight. He's going to have to have physical therapy, and from what I've heard so far, he'll probably still have a hitch in his giddy-up anyway, but he'll walk again soon."

"But he's really doing okay? Are you sure?"

"Face! For God's sake, he's fine, Face. What are you, his mother?

"His _brother_," Face snapped, irritated and relieved all at once. He began pacing up and down the upper deck of the hotel where he and the team were staying. He had forgotten the name of the Northern California town, but it totally lacked for entertainment, and he was about to run mad without Murdock to talk to and bicker with. B.A. was starving for exotic cooking, and Hannibal was depressed without the madman's stories to listen to.

"Right…anyway, he's probably having a ball – it's pretty obvious how things are between him and that little redhead. Y'know, she's really kind of sweet, once you get to know her. Kind of like Murdock, actually…"

"Oh?" Face snickered. "Really? Well, that should be interesting to see. Can't wait to talk to him. So what's this meeting about?"

"Actually, it's about you guys. What, you think they're not still chasing you?"

"Yes, we know they are, but you'd think that the fact that we led the police to the headquarters of a big crime syndicate yesterday, the Marshals would be kind of grateful for all our hard work. That bunch of sweatshop workers seemed a little grateful, too."

"They're glad they finally caught the bastards, but considering that y'all blew up half a city block and caused roughly five million dollars' worth of damage might negate feelings of gratitude a _little_…"

"Hey, we do our best. Stay beautiful, baby! Talk to ya later!"

He rang off and went back into the hotel room, where B.A. and Hannibal were playing cards. Face sat down on the bed and grinned. "She says he's doing well."

B.A. shook his head. "Crazy fool…he's got a busted knee and he's locked up somewhere where I'll be they won't even give him any toys…he's probably scared to death."

"No, man. He's with the Hellcat. The worst thing that might happen to him would be a paternity suit."

B.A. and Hannibal stared at Face, astonished, and he just cackled with laughter.

* * *

Seaborn's foul mood had lasted the entire week, and she studiously ignored him for the most part, which irritated him to no end. His first interview with Borislava, who preferred to be called Sonya, went well and her assessment of the damage to his knee was encouraging: she believed he would be able to walk fairly normally in about six months, with proper rehabilitation. He was going to have to cooperate with her regimen of not only exercise but diet as well. He worried that she was going to make him live on trail mix and herbs, but that was a matter he hoped he could outwit her on.

Meanwhile, his arms were getting stronger day by day, what with zooming around on his wheelchair. He could have gotten an electric one, but he had turned up his nose at the notion and insisted on the manual type. He had been in a few of them over the course of his life, due to various injuries, and was an expert at handling them. He also knew he scared Seaborn when he popped wheelies and spun around until he got dizzy, but it was fun, and besides, she was behaving so irrationally that he decided she deserved a good cardiovascular workout for his trouble. Two falls to the floor so far, and both times she had looked like she might go into a full-blown thrombosis.

She was sitting on the patio, writing some kind of report on her laptop, instead of doing the _sane_ thing and goofing off on Spider Solitaire or Internet Chess. Sonya had just left, having encouraged him to actually stand up and take a couple of steps every now and then. As he didn't howl with pain or fall on his face, she had declared his first 'baby-step' session to be a raging success and she told him he could get up and walk around several times a day, if he could tolerate it and always used proper support. "Don't overdo it – if you get tired, sit down and rest. But you should get up and start taking a few steps every day, as soon as possible after knee surgery," she had told him before she left. "I know that sounds crazy, but it's really for the best. Walking – slowly, mind you - gets the circulation going, and keeps the ligaments and muscles from becoming atrophied. The last thing you want is for anything to lock up during your recovery, or get damaged when you start your range-of-motion exercises." She was right about that – the pain had actually been fairly minimal and he now had a quad cane hanging from the back of his wheelchair. He felt a little like an old man, having to use the damned thing, but it was better than having to haul himself into his wheelchair if he wanted to use the john.

He was irritated with Seaborn, though – it annoyed him that she actually thought he was interested in Sonya, or that the therapist was interested in _him_. Even if she had been, he would have put the keebosh on that immediately, because…well, because he wasn't interested. He didn't have the mental stamina to handle _two_ women at one time, and wasn't good at lying anyway. Besides, he was only interested in one woman, and she was tough enough to handle. Plus she was armed. Only a complete idiot would cheat on a woman with a hot temper, a Glock and good aim.

Murdock rolled out onto the patio, and made circles around the table until she finally closed the laptop and glared at him. "I take it you want something?"

"Yup. Let's go for a walk. Or rather, you walk and I roll." He rolled forward and back a few times, spun around and grinned at her.

"I'm busy."

He frowned at her and settled in for a brawl. "No, you're just being bitchy."

She stood up, immediately enraged, which meant he had hit his mark. "How dare you-"

"Sit down. You're being ridiculous."

"Oh, so I'm ridiculous _and_ bitchy! How chivalrous of you!"

"No, just truthful. Do you think I'm gonna sleep with Sonya?"

Seaborn's eyes widened and she finally did sit down, the wind having been removed from her sails.

"Come on…out with it. Do you think I'm gonna sleep with her?"

Seaborn refused to look at him. Just chewed on her lip – which was so damned sexy – and mumbled under her breath.

"What was that?" He turned his good ear toward her.

"I _said, _'Well, wouldn't you?'"

"Why would I?"

She stood up again. "I refuse to talk about this any more. You are my prisoner, and that's all..." She started to stomp back into the house, but he grabbed her arm, pulled her back, and she landed in his lap. Seaborn struggled, but all that upper-body exercise of the past week had already hardened his muscles, and he had a good grip around her waist.

"That's not all, and you know it. Tell me again, baby," he said softly. "Why would I sleep with her?" He lowered his voice to a growling whisper. "She doesn't turn me on at all."

Seaborn stopped squirming and became still, and he noted that her hands were on his shoulders. "She…she doesn't?"

"Nope. My Russian's lousy, and she's _married_, Seaborn. Got a husband and three kids in the Valley. Mail-order bride, no less. The marriage worked, and she went to college to be a health care worker. Good for her and all that, but…I don't get off on adultery. Married girls – off limits."

"Oh." She looked at his mouth, and he grinned at her.

"Know what does turn me on, baby?"

"I…uh…Disney Pixar films?" She shifted, accidentally – maybe – and rubbed against him, making him feel feverish.

"No. Come on…try again."

"Uh…I can't…um…Playstation? Wii?"

He rolled his eyes, exasperated. And he thought he was clueless. "Sexy little redheads with ferocious tempers and Glocks. Right stimulatin', I must say." He slowly moved his hand up to the back of her neck, kneading softly. "Now are you gonna stop bein' so twitchy and angry or will I have to take more drastic measures with you?" Finally, unable to resist any longer, he pulled her down and kissed her, waiting patiently for her lips to part. He heard her soft sigh as she finally gave in and he took his time, exploring her slowly and thoroughly as his hands caressed her back and slowly moved forward, gently cupping her breasts. He felt her tremble, but he didn't sense fear. If he had, he would have let her go immediately, no questions asked.

Somewhere inside the cottage, a phone started ringing. He wasn't willing to let her go, however – not when her fingertips were finally shyly touching his face and she was kissing him back with like that. Damn, she tasted good. As soon as his knee was better, and regardless of whether he was handcuffed or not, he was determined to…

"The phone…" she whispered, pulling away from him a little.

"Forget the damned phone," he muttered, bringing her back for another kiss.

She sighed into his mouth and kissed him back before trying to pull away again. "It's…it's the comm. line. I've…I've got to…mm…yes…I mean…I have to take…"

The phone started ringing again, and she somehow managed to extricate herself from his arms. She rushed back into the house, leaving him sitting there aroused and frustrated, thumping his fists on the armrests. He rolled into the house and watched her brush her hair back and struggle to regain her composure before finally picking up the phone. "Buchanan."

Murdock grabbed his cane and made himself get up and hobble to the couch. His knee wasn't the part of him that was hurting right now, that was for sure. He sat down, propped his leg up and turned on the TV. If Alexander Graham Bell had walked into the room right then, Murdock would have stabbed him to death with one of the spokes on his wheelchair.

* * *

Seaborn rubbed her temples and stared miserably at the phone. That thing seemed to transfer more bad news to her than good, these days. And it was all complicated by six feet and one-hundred-eighty pounds of wiry muscle and spontaneity currently sitting in the living room watching _SpongeBob Squarepants._

Okay, so he made her dizzy. So he made her forget what she was doing. Made her forget to breathe, actually, but that was just a side-effect. It still bewildered her that she hadn't panicked at all when he'd grabbed her, and that she would have been delighted to have sat in his lap all afternoon, kissing him and letting him do certain _things_ to her. Delightful things that would have led to the bedroom and even more wonderful things.

It was unprofessional, of course. If anyone caught her making out with her prisoner, she could lose everything - her job, her reputation, and any means of paying off college loans. That was a major sticking point. Marshals aren't generally permitted to carry on sexual relationships with their prisoners, at least as far as she knew, much less develop such strong emotional attachments to them.

And there lay the biggest, most awful, confusing, exciting and potentially disastrous problem of all: her attachment to him.

She knew that eventually, the Marshals would want to move James somewhere else – they had only grudgingly given her the use of the resort cottage, after she had assured them that he would not attempt to escape (in spite of his reputation for doing just that) and that he would be safer there than in a hospital. She also knew that even if he was retried, the wheels of justice didn't exactly turn quickly. In fact, they moved at the speed of Dutch elm disease and the government would want him housed someplace less expensive. Like his and her own worst nightmare, a mental hospital.

That would mean transporting him, probably by plane – another risk in itself - and then she would have to keep watch over him until all the arrangements were made and all contingencies were covered for his incarceration until another trial, if it even came to that. She guessed that he would be taken back to Mannheim and the Army psych hospital. Her questions to Kris about that facility hadn't given her much encouragement. Kris had mainly dealt with the injured and physically ill patients there, but she had seen how the others were treated. They hadn't been physically abused, but they were frequently berated, scolded, talked down to and treated like children instead of brave and honorable soldiers who had been traumatized and had withdrawn into safer worlds of their own making.

She stood in the kitchen, mulling these unpleasant realities over. Sean Ripley had arrived at two o'clock, and she heard him and James in the living room, talking about…monster truck rallies? She went in and stood there, stunned, as the pilot went from big trucks rolling over smaller ones to the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan and from there to the human rights violations of the Chinese government – all without any kind of mental hiccup. Ripley was having a hard time keeping up, though, and so she rescued him, sending him off to do some grocery shopping – Murdock was tired of Campbell's Chunky stew and soup line and was making noises about Boston Market and maybe they could hunt down some Blue Bell ice cream? Plus, he wanted a good roast, veggies and some potatoes for a dinner he hoped to cook soon.

"Gilbert and Sullivan?" she asked, sitting down beside him on the couch once Ripley was gone.

"Yup. '_I am the very model of a modern Major-General…_'" he sang dramatically.

"Stop! I don't like opera. Not even light opera." She waved her hand to indicate her distaste for the genre.

"Well, obviously, you've never seen a good one. I mean, _Phantom of the Opera_ is really good, and so is _Don Giovanni_, and…"

"You like opera?"

"Not all of it. My bladder can't handle Wagner, of course, and frankly neither can my ears. Face dragged me to an opera with him, once, for a double date. She was a Frenchwoman from Calais – my date, I mean - and there I was, squeezed into a tux and Texas twangin' all over the place. I translated – you'd be shocked at how repetitive and redundant opera can be, but it all sounds cool if shrieked by large people in garish outfits. I got a terrible headache, and fell asleep before the third act was over. But I liked the opera…_Madame Butterfly_. So I bought the cast album and frankly opera keeps me sharp on my Latin-based languages…I've got a whole buncha opera albums. B.A. nearly had a stroke one morning when I woke him up _la fatal pietra_ from _Aida_. He thought the camp was being strafe-bombed."

She closed her eyes, counted to ten and asked "Where did you learn so many languages?"

"I just have a knack for 'em," he shrugged. "I pick 'em up here and there."

"Hm."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What do you…uh…pick up? Everybody picks up something. B.A. picked up fixin' machines and beatin' the shit outta people; Hannibal picked up wild plans that never work the way he planned but work anyway. Face picks up girls..."

Seaborn frowned. "I learned graphic design somewhere along the way, and how to press flowers…"

"Really? Sounds interesting. How dya do it?"

"You have to dry the flowers out, first," she explained, easily warming to the subject. "Then you put the flowers in between newspapers and then put the folded newspaper in a good thick dictionary – I always use an unabridged edition – at about the 'M's, and then I stack about twenty pounds worth of books on the dictionary. Takes about a week for them to be properly flattened. There's more complicated ways of doing it, but the simplest way is the best way, in my opinion."

"Usually is," he nodded. "And then what do you do with them?"

"I press them onto thin sheets of ash or maple," she explained. "A bit of glue, some glazing sometimes if they're really flat, and then I get some matching matte and a picture frame and…_viola_…pressed flowers."

"Ever sell 'em?"

"I've sold a few at some arts and crafts things," she shrugged. "They don't go for a bundle, thus a need for an actual job."

He sat back, thinking, fingers drumming on his flat belly. God, he was fit, she thought. She supposed he'd have to be, considering his career in the military. You don't run around with thirty or forty-pound packs on your back, taking fire, much less fly complicated aircraft without having to maintain perfect physical conditioning. In the past week, too, she had been able to see his biceps getting harder and _bigger_. The beak on the eagle on his Rangers tattoo must be a little _wider_ now…

"Did you press the flowers I gave you back at Fort Bragg?"

Seaborn blushed. "Yes."

"Thought so." He grinned at her.

"James, there's something we…need to talk about."

"Uh…okay. Let me snap into serious mode now…"

"It is serious." She sat, weaver-style, on the couch, facing him. "It's a pretty good possibility that you will be moved. Either to a…facility back East, or even back to Germany."

"Oh." His good mood was immediately gone.

"It all depends, really, on whether or not I can catch the rest of the A-Team and get full testimony from Vance Burress regarding the theft of the plates. If he will confess to his complicity…"

"He won't. Not without something more serious than waterboarding and the Chinese Tickle Torture."

"But the evidence is very strong now – and the CIA even seems to agree, from what I've been told – that you and your friends are innocent, and the Army might give you another trial."

He shook his head. "Hannibal wants a civil trial."

"That wouldn't be possible, James. Crimes committed by Army personnel while on active service can't be tried by a civil court. You know that."

"Be we didn't commit a crime!" he snapped, annoyed. "And what about Black Forest? They committed a pretty damned big crime and we got screwed in the offing."

"They weren't Army personnel, though."

"So why no civil trial for them?" he asked pointedly. "Or better yet, an uncivil trial involving hamsters chewing off their toenails? I mean, the little weasel was shooting people at the FOB. I saw it. He and his goons were shooting them while they were sittin' in their _cars_…that's cold-blooded murder, civil or military, Seaborn."

Seaborn nodded. "I know. I _know_, James. But…it's very possible…in fact very likely, that you will be transported back to Germany once you're able to walk again. Apparently, the Army is insisting you be in good health before…"

"Before they strap me back in the chair and try to fry my Goddamn brain!" he snarled, his temper heating up along with his frustration and growing fear. "I can't go back there, Seaborn. I can't. I don't do well in captivity. I get mange and...and fleas...I start chewing on...my nails and stuff..."

"Did they abuse you there?" she asked him cautiously.

"Not physically. But hey, who would give a damn if a nutjob got whacked around, huh?" He got up, grabbing his cane. "Why do they want me back at one-hundred perfect physically fit, anyhow? They got Full Moon Death Matches goin' on in Mannheim now? Pittin' Karl the Giant Who Thinks He's George S. Patton against James the Jittery Fruitcake Who Can't _Cope_? 'Cause that's happened to me before. I barely got out alive!" He swallowed, and she saw real panic in his eyes. It was nothing she wanted to see from such an otherwise brave and determined man.

"I would," she said softly. "I would care. And I'll see to it that anybody who ever mistreated you…or ever mistreats you…is seared like an Ahi tuna."

That made him stop, and she saw his anger slowly fade away. But she could still see the fear there. He rubbed his nose, pondering whether he could make a properly dramatic flounce from the room while limping on a cane, and finally decided against it. He sat down again, slowly and gingerly.

"And besides which, I happen to have a surprise for you."

"Can I hope it's an easily-removed red see-through negligee and stiletto heels?" he asked, his voice still a little shaky.

"You would look awfully silly in such an outfit, Captain. In fact, you would look frightening," she said, getting up and going into bedroom. She returned a few moments later carrying his cell phone. "You are finally being permitted to call Lieutenant Peck. Tonight."

He stared at the phone, started to say something, and then finally looked at her, wary but willing to put his faith in her for now. "C-can I call home, too? I mean…my…my stepfather? I prob'ly oughta talk to him. Haven't spoken to him in almost a year, and I s'pect he's read the newspapers…all of this…"

"Let me set up a safe line first, but yes, you can call him soon. I can leave the room, if you like, while you talk to Face."

"Yeah. Thanks. Are you going to use this call to track him down?"

She chewed on her lip and finally shook her head. "No, James. I won't. If anyone asks, just say you dialed the wrong number. You have ten minutes."

**TBC**...


	20. It Was An Ottoman

Good grief, I wasn't actually expecting this to happen so soon! But eh…it was inevitable, wasn't it?

**Songs**:

Nick-At-Nite did indeed add lyrics to the theme from _The Dick Van Dyke Show_.

The 'Rawhide' song is from _Rawhide_, obviously, and was lampooned brilliantly by Billy Crystal in _City Slickers_. I can so see Murdock loving that movie and memorizing the song. I've about memorized it myself.

* * *

The phone rang twice, and Murdock gripped the Nokia so tightly he worried he might break it. Finally, someone picked up, and he started to speak but was alarmed when no one said anything on the other end. Nervously, he said "Hello?" and waited.

"Hel-…Murdock! Oh, Jesus! Murdock…is that really you?"

"Uh…" He looked around the room. "Let me check. Hey…Billy, is it really me? Or did I leave myself somewhere again? I'm always losin' myself. Very inconvenient, lemme tell ya. Remember that time I ended up in the dryer? Boy, that was a humdinger of a day…"

"Hannibal!" Face was yelling so loud it made Murdock flinch and have to hold the phone away from his ear- his right ear. Should have used the left one, he thought. "Hannibal! It's Murdock!"

There were sounds of scuffling, shouting, and B.A. demanding that he be given the damned phone. But Face was apparently made of sterner stuff, because it was his voice that Murdock heard again. "Oh, man…Murdock. Buddy, are you okay? Damn it, B.A., get off me!"

"I'm okay."

"Murdock, you crazy fool…are they treatin' you all right? 'Cause if they ain't, I swear to God I'll cap 'em all. I'll bust their heads open!"

"I'm fine, Bosco. Just fine," he nodded, pleased. "I mean, my knee's been screwed back t'gether with a buncha pins and stuff and maybe some masking tape, and I've got a Russian physical therapist comin' by twice a week, but I am otherwise in excellent health, thank you, kind sir."

"A _Russian_ physical therapist? Big dude named, what, Vladimir?" Face asked, having beaten B.A. away again.

"Tall blonde named Borislava, actually. Goes by Sonya."

"Oh? Really? Cool…what's she look like?"

"Fairly good-lookin', and the wedding ring on her finger matches her eyes. Is Hannibal there?"

"Of course, but just a minute, I…hey, give that back!"

"Captain!" Hannibal barked into the phone next, startling Murdock so much he almost dropped the Nokia. "How are you, son? Are you all right?"

"I'm good. Hey, can Wally and the Beav' come out and play?"

He was surprised to hear the Colonel laugh, but then B.A. finally got the phone, and Murdock heard Face yelping something about having had his foot stomped on. "How are you really doin', little brother? Are you eatin' okay?"

"I am on a healthy and well-regimented diet," Murdock informed him loftily. "Coconut curry tampanade with toast points, of course, and steaks of the damned."

"Man…that's just cruel. Real cruel a' you, talkin' 'bout tampanade. I've been havin' to eat Face's cookin' these past few days. He can't even make a ham an' cheese sandwich right."

"You have to sing to your lunchmeat. Don't he know that? Plus I'll bet he buys store brand mayo, 'stead of Hellman's. He's a Philistine." Murdock said, exasperated.

There was more shuffling and growling and finally Face had the phone again, with Hannibal and B.A. arguing in the background. Murdock heard rank being pulled at last, and Face laughing. "Listen, buddy, if you want us to, we'll come bust you out of wherever you are…"

"I'm okay where I am," Murdock told him. "If I end up someplace else, though, feel free to come get me then."

"Some place else? What do you mean?" Face's good cheer vanished and he sounded anxious.

"I mean…I mean I might end up…someplace else. Where wieners and saurkraut are, for reasons that continue to baffle me, part of everyday diet. Along with tripe. I don't get tripe."

"Germany?" Face yelled, horrified. "Back at that stinkin' place in Mannheim? You had burn marks on your temples, dammit!"

"It'll be okay, Facey. Don't worry 'bout me. I can…deal."

"Like hell you can. I'll be damned if you have to 'deal' again." Murdock heard his friend talking rapidly to Hannibal, who came back on the line again, with B.A. shouting 'What? They're sending him where?' in the background.

"They're sending you back to Mannheim? Why?"

"I don't know for sure that they will, sir. It just…I don't know. Seaborn just said it was a possibility. I could end up someplace back East, anyhow, and…"

There was a tense silence at the other end of the line, and Murdock regretted having said anything about it. He could see Face seething, B.A. looking for large weapons of mass destruction, and Hannibal drawing up elaborate plans that could just cause a major, messy but fun disaster.

"We're coming to get you, Captain."

"No! No, don't! Please…please, don't. You do, and they'll throw y'all in prison again. I couldn't bear that. Please, don't come. Don't, Colonel. Please don't. Just…wait. Seaborn's workin' on something, I think, and…"

"She's what, twenty-eight years old?" Hannibal barked. "A Marshal for about…oh, three years? What kinds of connections do you think she has? How can she do anything for us?"

"She has some high-up connections, I think, sir," Murdock answered. "And she's running an investigation, and I think somebody in the CIA is on our side…maybe. I don't know. I only hear the chatter and translate as best I can. I don't get the detailed reports…I tend to cut 'em up and make paper dolls out of 'em anyhow…"

"What about Lynch?" Hannibal asked. "I'm sure he's got something up his sleeve."

"The orange jumpsuit sleeve?" Murdock asked. "I think Seaborn put the fear of the Lord into him. I'm not sure if he'll be cut loose, because the real Lynch…er…well, he may not be as…uh…awful as you'd think, really. Where are y'all, anyhow?"

"We're…somewhere," was Hannibal's enigmatic answer. "And we're doin' okay."

"Cleanin' up the world, one sleazeball at a time, huh?" Murdock laughed. "Good, man. Keepin' yourself sharp."

There was a sound of scuffling, raised voices, and finally, the sound of Hannibal yelping "Ouch! I can't believe you kicked me in the ankle, you little…!" and Face had the phone again.

"Hey, buddy, listen to me…you're not…you're not mad at me, are you, for leavin' you there at that hospital? I didn't want to. It nearly killed me, havin' to run off, and…"

"Hey, it's all right. I'm not mad. It wasn't like nobody was ever going to recognize me. It's okay. 'sides, I'm livin' the life of Reilly here. Whoever Reilly is. I wonder whose life he's leading? O'Rourke's?"

Face laughed. "We miss you somethin' awful, man. B.A. cries into his Post Toasties every mornin', whinin' about how he misses your scrambled eggs and hand-carved waffles, and Hannibal's laugh lines are disappearin', and I'm about to go nuts, not havin' anybody to tell knock-knock jokes to."

"Well, if it's all just the same to you, I think I can do without your knock-knock jokes. They suck. They're humor killers."

Face snickered. "So how are things going for you on the more…er…_personal_ level, bud? You and the Hellcat, you know…playin' hide the cannoli yet?"

Murdock glanced uneasily toward the door, wondering if she was in there tapping into the line, listening. "Uh…how 'bout them _Longhorns_, Facey?"

"Damn…you've always been that way. I never could get your best stories out of you. Instead, it's just the time you mooned Hillary Clinton…"

"Hey, I had always wondered why they called it a 'moon roof'. Now we know! And all things considered, I think Hillary rather appreciated the…er…_gesture_. Besides, at the time, I was much younger and firmer."

Face was wheezing, he was laughing so hard, and he surrendered the phone to B.A., who was apparently sitting on Hannibal. "Listen, fool…you take care of yourself, or I'll whip your ass!"

"Oh, it's so flattering to know you care, big guy. Billy says hello!" He barked into the phone, and panted a few times, which made B.A. start growling back, though not in a canine imitation. Hannibal got the phone again.

"James," he said seriously. "Listen to me, all right? If you ever feel like you're in trouble, or you're being mistreated, you call us, understood?"

"I will, sir. I promise."

"Good. Good…well…yes. Right. Here's Face again," Hannibal said.

"Hey, bud. Ditto to Hannibal's orders there."

"You don't give a Captain orders, Lieutenant," Murdock told him haughtily. "XO or not, I still outrank you. But I will take those words under advisement."

"Good. Listen…uh…we'll see you soon. I know we will. We'll get our good names and our ranks back and be kickin' ass legally again, all right? Just remember that."

"Right. I know we will, Facey. I know we will." He looked up and saw Seaborn come back into the room, tapping her wrist and giving him a 'wrap it up' gesture. He sighed. "I gotta go…okay, I love you, bye-bye!"

He hung up reluctantly, handing the phone back to Seaborn, who took it gently and nodded. "They're okay?"

"Yeah."

She sat down next to him on the couch and handed him the remote. "Let's watch TV. What's your poison?"

"_The Dick Van Dyke Show_," he said.

"Oh, good." She flipped the channels until she found it. "Oh, this is a good one. Sally's dating that mortician…"

"And he turns out to be married."

"And a Nazi!" Seaborn laughed. "A married Nazi!"

"Not literally a Nazi. I don't think Nazis can be morticians...I mean…eek! Just like policemen can never moonlight as male strippers and bankers can't be rodeo clowns. It's just one of those _rules_..."

The theme music came on, and they started singing the lyrics Nick at Nite had made up. "'_Dick Van Dyke is Robert Petrie, who comes home, hugs Laura, and accidentally trips over that thing_…"' They finished the lyrics with a loud flourish, enjoying themselves immensely, and Murdock blew out his cheeks. "God, I was so mad when Nick at Nite replaced that with some God-awful show…and they also got rid of _The Mary Tyler Moore Show _and _The Bob Newhart Show_…"

"Replaced it with _Sanford and Son_," Seaborn nodded. "I hate that show. All the yelling and grouching and being nasty. Redd Foxx just never made me laugh. Not once."

"Did you see the episode where he dressed up like Fidel Castro?"

"Glimpsed it." She opened a bottle of Dr Pepper and handed it to him.

"Only time ol' Fidel was amusing was when he fell off a stage and crashed into a buncha metal chairs. Saw it on Dennis Miller's show. I laughed until my gums bled. Filthy bastard. I hope it _hurt_." He took a swig of Dr Pepper and sighed.

"Me too. What did they say to you?" she asked.

"Who?"

"James…"

"Oh. Right. They just said they were okay and I told them I was okay and we discussed the spring fashions and the latest episode of _The Office_ and…what?"

"They didn't say where they were?"

"If they had, I still wouldn't disclose that intel." He sat back, stretching his legs out and propping his foot on the coffee table, flexing his ankle, as Sonya had taught him. "But…thanks for letting me talk to them."

"You're welcome," she said softly.

Ripley arrived then, and she was on her feet and back in the kitchen before he made it into the living room, carrying two bags of groceries and looking harried. Murdock looked grumpy at first, but he got up and limped into the kitchen, Seaborn watching him with growing concern – he looked tired. He peered into the bags, as curious as a cat, and examined the roast the Marshal had bought. "Not bad. Just enough marbling. Lemme see the potatoes…" Ripley grinned and presented him with the bag of large russets, which he also declared suitable. "Carrots and onions? I need carrots and onions, and some red wine."

"Red wine?" Seaborn asked, brow wrinkling.

"Well, yeah…duh." He shook his head and hobbled back to the couch, wincing a little. Ripley went around and showed him the bottle.

"Oh, good choice," he said sleepily. "Something-dee-umpthing…good year…pinot…noir…blanc…rose…ah, hell, I don't know from wine. That's Face's department. I don't care. I just drink it and end up puttin' the bottle on my toe. Seaborn, did you drug my Dr Pepper?"

"Certainly not. Take a nap, Captain. You're exhausted."

"_James_," Ripley and Murdock both said, and Seaborn rolled her eyes. The pilot finally dozed off, just as Sally was telling off the married Nazi mortician.

* * *

Drunk Murdock just about the sexiest thing Seaborn had ever seen.

After his nap, Murdock insisted on peeling the potatoes himself, so she sat him at the table in the kitchen and he went to work, cap turned around backwards and whistling 'Back On the Chain Gang'. While he skinned the russets, he gave each of them a pep talk, explaining that sometimes, a potato simply had to be brave and willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good. Meanwhile, she took an unpleasant call from Friarson regarding the lack of success of the Marshals at finding the rest of the A-Team, while a spiteful man with DCIS griped about where Murdock was to be placed once he was well enough to be moved again. She insisted that her team would find the A-Team, and that Murdock was in no shape, so far, to be dragged back to Germany. Neither conversation left her in a very cheerful mood, but she simply didn't have the heart to tell her prisoner the details of what was coming. Frankly, she didn't want to think about it.

He had somehow located a meat tenderizer by the time she came back to the kitchen, and was whacking the roast and sprinkling it with some kind of powdery substance.

"That had better not be gunpowder, James," she said. "Ripley left?"

"It is actually a mixture of pepper, cinnamon and sea salt," he informed her. "And yeah, he left. Wife and kids take top priority at three o'clock. And he looked kind of uneasy 'bout my ingredients."

She raised an eyebrow. "Cinnamon?"

"Yep." He flipped the roast over, sprinkled it with flour and black pepper, and went back to whacking it, mumbling under his breath. He then began massaging it and asking it if it felt any less stressed. "It's been a hard day, I know…all that tension…yes, yes, I can definitely agree there. I've done some cowpunchin' myself, over the years – no, none of your relatives, I'm certain; you're a California cow, and my cowboyin' days were back in Texas, so calm down. You know the great songs of the range, don't you? '_Rollin', rollin', rollin', keep them doggies rollin', man my ass is swollen, Rawhide! Get 'em up, move 'em out, wake 'em up, get 'em dressed, get 'em shaved, comb their hair, Rawhide! Tie me down, tell me lies, pull my hair, smack my thighs - with a big wet strap of, Rawhide!_'"

She covered her eyes with hand and laughed helplessly, finally sitting down to keep from falling on the floor.

He glanced at her, and took a swig of the red wine, drinking straight from the bottle, before pouring some into the slow roaster. "This'll be ready at about six o'clock, I reckon," he told her.

"Gimme that bottle," she told him. He handed it over and she took a swig before handing it back. "Hm…sharp and sassy; sweet without being cloying, with a touch of nuttiness, and possessing a very nice vanilla bouquet." She sat back, smiling.

"Describin' the wine or yourself?" he asked, taking another swig.

She shrugged. "Take your pick."

"I did a Loire Valley tour once, when I was about twenty. Back then, I could roll over and swallow a whole bottle of Greek hooch and only experience temporary blindness. Now, I'm pretty sure that stuff'd kill me deader'n a hammer. I never developed a real taste for fine or awful wines, to be honest with ya. I took a side trip to Normandy instead, after about the nine thousandth vineyard and some guy blithering about aging and types of barrels. Toured the horse farms. Now _they_ were cool. Dja know there was a Thoroughbred named Thor that killed a coupla German soldiers, during the occupation? They were tryin' to steal the horse – they stole a whole bunch of 'em from French breeders - and he kicked the little pricks to death. I can't remember what farm it was, but it made an inspi-…inspirin' story."

"Thor had a bad temper, I assume."

"Nasty bugger, that horse." Murdock hiccupped. "I looked him up. His kids were nasty, too. Fast, but nasty."

"Are you gonna be too drunk to cook?"

"No. I've cooked drunk before. I've also cooked broke before. Macaroni and cheese without milk…with a side of SPAM – 'stuff posing as meat'. Ramen noodles…" He shuddered.

"I hate Ramen noodles," she said, shaking her head. "I gag when I see the containers."

"College food, eh?"

"Yeah. I did a year of college, accelerated, and then went to Georgia for training with the Marshals. I'm still in hock to my eyebrows, but I'll pay it off somehow. And you went to UT, if I recall…"

"Yep. Got a doctorate in physics and another in aerodynamics – _officially, _I can call myself Captain Doctor James M. Murdock, but I feel like I oughta be on the control deck of the Starship _Enterprise_ when I call myself that. Figured I should do all that, though, to make it all official. Meanwhile, I was flyin' for the Thunderbirds. From there, officer training and some side stuff with the CIA and…well…psych wards…can we not talk about that?"

"Why not?"

"It's not a subject I enjoy discussing. The psych wards, I mean." He finally finished beating the roast into submission and slapped it into the slow cooker, on top of the potatoes and carrots. He poured in some more wine, added some more rather mysterious-looking sauces, and set the cooker on the countertop, all while standing gingerly on his good leg. He washed his hands thoroughly and took another draw on the bottle before handing it back to her. She read the label and took another, small sip. "Five dollars."

"Well, I am a better class of loser!" he said, flopping down onto a seat at the table, across from her, and taking off his cap. He ran his hand through his unruly hair, and Seaborn's heart skipped a beat.

"I'm a three-dollar wine girl, m'self," she acknowledged.

"Eh…that suits me just fine, thank you. I just don't dri-…drink much any more," he said, starting to slur a little. "It started to 'ccur to me that I…I wash…was havin' a good time, yes, but Lord, I couldn't remember the g-good time. Last time I got thoroughly smashed, I ended up in bed with…uh…"

"Yes?" she raised her eyebrow.

"Swish model," he nodded.

"_Swish_?"

"_Swiss_."

"Model?"

"Well, she wad'n a _yodeler_. At least, not officially. She did do a bit a' yellin' to God, anyhow..."

"Oh." Seaborn felt her cheeks warming, and a frisson of jealousy flashed through her system, up through her lungs and out her ears.

"Her name was Claire. Or was it Éclair? No. No, it wash…was Claire."

"When was this?"

"Fi' yearsh ago," he nodded. "God, I am getting so drunk now."

"Yes, you are."

"She was the last woman I actually slep' with," he nodded. "I' was righ' 'fore I met you, ashually…th-…then I wad'n inter'sted in nobody else…"

"Oh?" Whatever jealousy she felt toward the mysterious Swiss model Claire vanished completely and she waited, feeling her heart bouncing around excitedly.

"I mean' it when I tol' you I didn't think you had…had to…change. That you're fine the…the way you are." He blinked, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. He started to grab the bottle, but she took it from him and put it aside, out of his reach.

"I am?"

"Yeah. And then you kish…kished…_kissed_ me and I was a goner…"

"Oh." She blushed and looked down. "I was already a goner. I had a pretty serious crush on you, at Fort Bragg."

He sat back, processing this information through his increasingly pickled mind. "Do…do you shtill…shtill have a crush on me?"

She chewed on her lip, thinking this over. All the risks and possibilities involved with just following her heart and her instincts and throwing caution to the wind. Something _had_ to give. "Yes, I do, James. I do still have a crush on you. A very, very serious crush."

"Oh. Oh. Yeah. Well, _great_…I'm drunk and I got a bushted knee and…and the pot roast will take three hours to cook, at least…"

"So we have three hours?" she asked him, in a soft whisper.

"Yeah…yeah. Three…hours." His eyes widened then and he swallowed. "Or…or we could forget about supper entirely and…"

"I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I."

He swallowed and sat back again, rubbing his face. He struggled to his feet and used his cane to get to the sink. He splashed cold water on his face and turned off the slow cooker. She stood up, feeling strangely calm, even with her heart pounding. He limped back to her, and hesitated. "Are you sure?" he asked her at last, taking her hand in his.

"Yes."

"I mean, I don't…I don't want to hurt you…or scare you…I mean, what happened…"

"Was three years ago," she said softly. "And this is now." She shyly touched his cheek, and he slipped his arm around her waist, gently pulling her to him. Seaborn met him halfway, kissing him hungrily, and she whimpered when he pulled away.

"Slow down. We have all afternoon and…all night, don't we?"

"Yes. Let…let me put the…the cooker in the fridge. No use wasting a perfectly good roast. Wait there…don't move!"

"Believe me, I ain't goin' nowhere, baby."

She hurriedly rushed to the kitchen, practically threw the slow cooker into the refigerator and kicked the door shut, then moved back into his arms, sighing when he kissed her again. After that, nothing else seemed to matter except him. She urged him to leave his cane behind and let him lean on her as they made their way to his bedroom. When he made a suggestion about his handcuffs, she only burst into laughter and dragged him into the room.

* * *

Well, there ya have it. Use your imaginations – sometimes, in my opinion, that's much better than full disclosure. I suspect that even with Murdock's busted knee, there won't be any serious…er…_difficulties_. ;)

The story about Thor (bay, 1930, by Ksar x Lasarte, by Alcantara II; won the 1933 French Derby) is supposed to be true. I used to have a copy of _Thoroughbred Times_, which had a 'Yesteryear' section that mentioned the stallion's murderous escapades. I don't recall the details completely, but according to the story, he actually did kill two German soldiers who were attempting to take him from a farm in Normandy. He was, indeed a very, very vicious horse. The Germans stole numerous horses from French farms, and bred them in Germany during WWII (some French breeders refused to acknowledge or accept registration of the resulting 'illegimitimate' foals). Thor remained in France and was a sire of some limited influence. He was finally destroyed in 1947 at the National Stud in England, after mauling his groom.


	21. Big Girls Don't Cry

Some girl talk, some filler stuff, some _Russian_, and the start of another (final) arc. Some interesting twists and turns coming up (including one I didn't expect but looks good), so hold on to your butts.

* * *

Seaborn glanced down at her watch and resumed drumming her fingers on the table. Kris was running late, as usual. Being a nurse meant that her schedule got shot all to hell sometimes, but Seaborn hoped her friend would be able to sit still long enough to talk. Because God knew she had some major stuff to discuss.

She recalled seeing _Thelma and Louise_, a few years ago, and the scene where Thelma revealed to Louise that she had finally experienced her first orgasm kept running through her mind. All that giggling and squealing and grinning like an idiot had, at the time, seemed very silly to Seaborn. It wasn't so silly now, though, because Seaborn hadn't experienced that just once, but several times during the previous night.

Frankly, Seaborn had been amazed that a man with a cracked kneecap could manage such things, but he had said that he wasn't feeling _any_ pain. Neither was she, even though he had worriedly asked her if he had hurt her. His sweet consideration for her had been touching, but she had told him very firmly that he should stop worrying and make love to her again. He hadn't voiced any objections or disquiet after that, and neither of them had gotten much sleep as a result, or needed any. She had finally persuaded him to take a nap sometime around dawn, and had left him a note that she would be back soon and to put the roast on for lunch.

Now, she was sitting at a table in a little restaurant near the hospital where Kris worked, bursting with excitement and some small degree of anxiety over this major development in her life. Not that she regretted having slept with James. In fact, had it not been for the fact that it might get back to Friarson, she would currently be doing cartwheels and shouting 'I had mind-blowing sex last night!' Maybe even do a little wango, too.

Finally, she spotted her friend rushing in, wearing polka-dot scrubs, and waved. Kris slid into the seat, looked across the table at Seaborn, gasped and leaned forward. "Oh my God! You had sex last night!" she whispered.

Seaborn stared back at her, wide-eyed. "Good God…what am I wearing, a neon sign?"

"No, it's just the slightly dizzy, not-quite-there expression, the glowing skin…yeah, you got some nookie, didn't you?" Kris started giggling. "_Mazel tov_! How many times?"

Seaborn had to stifle a giggle, as a woman and two little girls walked by. "I lost count."

"On second thought, don't count. Makes the guy awfully insecure. So…how was it?"

She sat back and sighed, remembering his touch and the way he made her feel. "Wonderful. Magical."

"No panic attacks…?"

"Nothing approaching a panic attack, or a freak out, or really any nervousness at all. I was actually the one who…you know…_initiated_ things. I did…_scream_ a little." She blushed. "So did he, actually. It was just…perfect. Amazing."

"Really? So…who was Mr Lucky?"

"Uh…well…you know I'm…I really can't say."

"Oh? Not Ripley or Shore, I hope. I mean, Ripley's kinda cute, but he's married, and Shore…"

"Not, not one of them. Good grief!"

"Okay, okay…so who else would there be?" Kris sat and thought carefully. "The last guy I can think of that was doing any sniffing around you was that kid…the tech guy at your office, who repaired computers and stuff? He had a crush on you."

"You're making a joke! How cute!" Seaborn rolled her eyes. "Please…that kid still lived with his mom and didn't have a car. Try again."

"Um…" Kris pondered again, and after a few moments, she leaned forward again, expression cautious. "The guy that brought you daisies in Iraq, right? The…the one who currently in your custody…who also technically has no job and no car and is a _convicted felon_."

Seaborn shook her head. "Convicted, yes. Guilty, no."

"You're sure of that?"

"Completely sure, Kris. They were all framed."

Kris studied her carefully and finally grinned, shaking her head. "Oh my God…Seaborn Aphrodite Buchanan…is in _love_."

Seaborn turned bright pink, but couldn't deny it. What good would it do anyway, to say it wasn't true? It was all over her face, and his fingerprints were all over her body. She was a goner.

* * *

_Sleep in, Your Majesty. I had some errands to run - I'll be back soon. Maybe you could put the roast on for lunch? _

_I had to put the cuffs back on you, in case I don't get back before Shore comes in. I put your boxers on the bed._

_xoxo_

_Seaborn_

He grinned at the note – which she had left on his chest - and pulled impatiently on the handcuff, wondering how he was going to get his shorts back on. The logistics of getting back into his boxers seemed kind of iffy. Even with both hands, it was hard to do, considering his knee was in the hinged cast. Then again, the cast hadn't gotten in the way last night, and frankly his knee hadn't bothered him a bit.

It took a bit of careful maneuvering, some muttering, and one brief spasm of pain when a cramp hit his right calf muscle – God he hated being thirty-eight – but he finally had them back on and was lying still, looking utterly innocent, when Shore came in and let him out of the cuffs, as usual. The Marshal left him alone to get dressed, and he finally selected sweatpants and a T-shirt with a _Far Side_ cartoon of the Mona Lisa as a cow ("Moona Lisa"), which he hoped would be easily removed tonight.

He hopped into the bathroom to shave, and tried, unsuccessfully, to get his hair under control. He suspected that he really did need a bath, but he'd have to ask Sonya about that first – the wound really had to be kept dry. He grabbed his cane and shuffled out to the kitchen, where all three of the Marshals were at the table, clicking away on their laptops and chewing on what looked like kolaches. He sniffed and got the pot roast out of the fridge and plugged it in again.

"I thought you were gonna make that roast last night, Captain," Ripley said.

"I…uh…changed my mind. Figured I'd feed all of y'all some proper lunch."

Christine got up and peered through the glass at the roast. "Ooo…I smell rosemary!"

"For remembrance. Rue for grace. Get away from my rump…roast, ya little minx."

She giggled and went back to the table. Murdock limped into the living room and sat down, turning the TV on and searching for something good to watch. He came across a live news report and stopped, startled, when he saw the scroll at the bottom of the screen. The newscaster was excitedly telling the story. "…barely avoided being captured last night, but in the process the federal fugitives did lead police to a sex trafficking ring in San Diego that has led to numerous arrests, including that of its leader…" Murdock's mouth twitched as he saw the mug shots of Face, Hannibal and B.A. He propped his bare feet on the coffee table and stretched out, feeling refreshed and relaxed after last night's vigorous activities.

"You'd think a bunch of allegedly vicious criminals would be doing vicious criminal-type stuff, instead of breaking up crime organizations and shutting down extortionists," Ripley muttered. Murdock glanced back at him, but said nothing. His heart swelled with pride for what his friends were doing. Hannibal's idea of making a clean living while on the run was proving successful. He just wondered if they were actually making any profits. Face would likely be pretty pissed if there were no returns on such obviously costly enterprises, but Hannibal would point out that doing the right thing rarely made a man much money, and B.A. would just shrug and eat a sandwich. Murdock wouldn't have cared about the money, either, so long as he had a chance to fly something.

He turned over to _Penguins of Madagascar_, but thought about Seaborn instead. As far as he had been concerned, she had been a virgin last night, and so he had taken his time, making sure not to frighten or hurt her. But instead of being either, she had been eager and then downright ardent, and had told him to stop being so gentle. Still, she had been pretty innocent and even charmingly naïve, so he had told her that they would practice until she got it right, which had got him a smack on the butt. After a while, she had been the one doing all the teaching and at several points during the night, he had forgotten his name, his rank and his serial number and had willingly revealed every damned secret he had, and had even started making up a few.

She had found the avocado-shaped birthmark on his hip, and had teasingly called him 'Your Majesty', and then asked him how she might properly serve the rightful King of France. His bawdy comment had made her start giggling, but…dear God in heaven, she had been quite willing to do what he'd suggested. That had nearly blown the top of his head off, and afterward, he had been dizzy and breathless while she just looked _smug_.

He had forgotten all about what was on TV – he was daydreaming about her and her soft skin and her silky red hair and that little spot on her hip that when stroked, made her squeal, and didn't hear her when she came in, rattling her keys. She poked his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin, yelping.

"Oh…uh…hi."

"James," she said, nodding. "Sleep well last night?" She glanced toward the kitchen, where her team was still sitting, clicking away and talking quietly amongst themselves.

"Extremely well. How 'bout you?"

"Well enough, Your Majesty," she whispered, and went into the kitchen. He smirked and stretched out on the couch, but had to get a pillow to hold across his lap just the same.

* * *

Lunch was a raging success. Murdock's Dalmatian pot roast ("No, it's not a puppy, you silly goof! It's a Croatian recipe, modified to the Murdockian style.") was a hit with all four Marshals, and there wasn't a morsel left over when they finished. Sonya arrived at three o'clock, and was pleased to see Murdock on his feet, washing dishes.

"You seem to be feeling well, Captain," she said, spreading the exercise mat on the floor in the living room. He limped over, using the cane, and shrugged.

"Uh…life is getting a little less…difficult."

"I'm glad to hear that."

He allowed the therapist to help him to the floor and stretched out on his back. Sonya went through the usual routine of stretches, pushes and pulls, and when they were finished he was only puffing a little, barely wincing even as she helped him to his feet and over to the couch.

"When can I take an actual bath again?" he asked her, glancing back toward the kitchen, where Seaborn was finishing up the last of the dishes and putting them in the washer.

"No bathing for a while yet, Captain," Sonya shook her head. "Showers only. I can get you some material to wrap around your knee, to keep everything dry. It's sort of like bubble wrap, actually. Just don't pop it." She smiled at him, shaking her head. "Stuff's kind of expensive, too."

"Right, right…"

"You'll need proper support while you shower, too. A hand-rail, and anti-slip decals on the shower floor."

I can use a redhead for support, too, he thought. Sonya caught his smirk and raised her eyebrows at him. "You're in a good mood, Captain."

"Yeah…uh…just feelin' better."

"_Have you told her_?"

He looked at Sonya, startled. "_Told who what_?"

"_You know who, silly. Have you told her that you love her?_" She nodded her head toward Seaborn, who was drying off the countertop and humming softly. _Put Your Little Foot_. He grinned and nodded.

"I _did. A long time ago_. I…guess I should…er…say it again, huh? In English?"

Sonya smiled and showed him how to put the wrap around his knee. Once she was satisfied that he could put it on correctly, she went over his pain meds and asked him if he had been having any difficulties lately. "No. No, not much."

The therapist raised one eyebrow and glanced back into the kitchen, where Seaborn had sat down at the table again and was typing on her laptop.

"_This could be a very difficult relationship for you, Captain_," she told him softly. "_I will not discourage it, of course, as I see it makes you very happy, but…be careful with her heart. She looks very tough, but I suspect she breaks easily_." Sonya paused, studying him carefully. "_And I think you do, too_."

It took Murdock a moment to process and translate Sonya's advice, but he managed to get the gist of it, and nodded. She smiled at him and stood, gathering up her things. Once she had left, he hopped into the kitchen and sat down at the table with Seaborn, who smiled at him and turned a lovely shade of pink. "Yes?"

"You got a Facebook page?" he asked.

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"I just don't. Do you?"

"Nah…they don't give you much internet access in the booby hatch. They did that once, and a guy ended up running for President."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I won't name names, but he actually came very close to _winning_. Funny thing is, nowadays, a lot of people have really come to realize that he _is_ nuts and are relieved he didn't win."

"Well, let's be fair, most of our Presidents have been clinically insane."

"Amen, sister. They'd have to be, to even run for office. But this guy…total raving loon."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm afraid to guess as to who that guy was."

"Let's just say he's crazy, but also filthy stinkin' rich. Sometimes, being nuts can bring in the dough."

Ripley and Shore came back in and Murdock was politely shooed away, back to the living room. He sighed and flopped onto the couch again, stretching out for another nap, figuring he needed to get some rest before tonight's festivities. He was awakened from a surprisingly deep sleep by Seaborn, who was shaking him gently and saying his name. "Hey. I'm going out. Ripley and Shore are going to be around, though. Be a good boy and you'll get a lollipop."

"I will be a perfect angel," he said, yawning and sitting up, looking around. They were alone, for now. "When…when are you coming back?"

"Just need to run some errands. Feed the cat, for one thing, but I also promised I'd pick up a friend from work and take her home – her car broke down." She glanced around the room and leaned in, kissing him softly. "I…uh…bought something this morning."

"Really? What?"

"You'll see."

"Aw, come on…is it…small?"

"Very small."

"Easily removed?"

"Maybe."

"Tease."

She laughed and left, and Murdock stretched out again, relaxing. Ripley and Shore came back in and returned to their work at the table, talking quietly. Once the house was quiet again – all he could hear was Ripley tapping on the keyboard of his laptop – he thought about Sonya's gentle warning. Seaborn could be very badly hurt if things went as wrong as they _could_. And he knew that his own heart wasn't exactly unbreakable, but then again, he had never been in love before. He had been in smit a few times, and very definite like, but it had never developed into love until Seaborn. She was all he could think about, and for her to show signs that maybe she loved him back…well, it was downright thrilling and nerve-wracking, all at once.

He was going to tell her tonight. Say the words, see how she reacted, and go from there.

* * *

Kris was wrapping up on some charts when Seaborn arrived to pick her up, and as soon as she was finished, they went into the nurse's lounge, where the Marshal was relatively well known to Kris's colleagues. Kris introduced Seaborn to the new girl – a pretty, soft-spoken young black girl named Makemba, a nursing student. "Kem is from…Tanzania, right?" Kris asked, slamming her locker shut.

"Yes, I am."

"English is a bitch, isn't it?" Kris laughed. "We're teaching her all the four-letter words, of course."

"Damn right, that," Kem nodded, as Seaborn's mind latched onto something Murdock had said to her at one point. "Every word in English has a hundred different meanings! In Swahili, it's simple and no one gets a headache. Just today a doctor told me step on it. I still don't know what he wanted me to step on. Like I was going to step on a patient or something. Horrible man…"

"You speak Swahili?" Seaborn asked cautiously.

"Yes. I do."

Kris raised her eyebrow and watched as Seaborn struggled to get her purse open, then started digging around inside it. Finally, she just dumped everything out and finally found what she was looking for – a small piece of paper. She unfolded it and held it out to Kem, who stared at it and at Seaborn with trepidation. "What? Am I in trouble?"

"No…no! Of course not. But…what does that phrase mean? Is it Swahili?"

Kem peered at the words on the paper and smiled. "Yes. It's Swahili. _Nakupenda. Ninapenda wewe_."

"What does it _mean_?" Seaborn asked her, resisting an urge to start shaking the girl.

"It means…'I love you. I will always love you'."

Kris's eyes widened and Seaborn had to sit down, feeling the same vertigo she had experienced the first time she had seen James. She stared down at the little piece of paper, her heart pounding. He had said that to her, three years ago! Slowly, while Kris stood there waiting patiently, she pulled all her things back into her purse and stood, even though her knees were wobbling.

"Wow," Kris said softly. "I mean…wow. Even after you threw a vase of flowers at him, he still said that. Meant it, too, I suspect."

"James never says anything he doesn't mean," Seaborn whispered. "Never."

* * *

"What do you mean? I don't understand…"

Friarson shook his head. "The Army wants you back in Germany as soon as possible, Captain."

Murdock had to grab his cane, to keep from falling over. "Wait…this is a mistake, right? Or…or a joke?"

"The Marshals are closing in on the rest of the A-Team, and the last thing we need is to have them come spring you out," Friarson shook his head. "Captain, I'm almost convinced of your innocence myself, but it's not my job to determine that. You're leaving in twenty minutes. I would suggest you gather up your things…"

"Wait…wait a minute…stop this. Will somebody please just wake me up? Please?"

"This isn't a dream, sir," Friarson said, glancing uneasily at Ripley and Shore, neither of whom looked terribly happy either. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be. I'm told that your knee is healing well, and you'll continue your physical therapy in Mannheim. There's a C-130 waiting for you at LAX. You have twenty minutes to be ready to go."

"But…" Murdock started to plead again, but stopped himself in time. He glanced around the room, seeing Christine, who actually looked bereft. He finally nodded. "Right. Right. Can't fight the Man, can we?"

Friarson nodded and gestured for Shore and Ripley to follow him outside. Christine hung behind, and finally whispered to him, "I know you and Seaborn are…you know." At his alarmed look, she shook her head. "It's okay. That happens sometimes – you can't fight the Man, and you can't fight that, either. I know you're innocent, too, Captain."

"Yeah. Thanks…for whatever good that will do me now."

She shyly squeezed his arm, her expression sympathetic, and went out. Murdock slowly sat down on the couch again, bewildered and increasingly frightened. But he pulled himself together and got up, limping back to his room, keeping his mind blank so he wouldn't completely freak out. He started gathering his things – what few possessions he had to take at all – and put them in a plastic bag, working methodically, and even fixed the bed – the bed he had shared with Seaborn last night. He could still smell her – lilac soap and Vanilla Fields perfume and strawberries. That combination of scents would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

Heading back out into the living room, he looked around for a few moments, knowing he would miss the cottage more than a little, and finally went outside, where the Marshals were waiting for him. He tiredly allowed them to put the cuffs on his wrists again. They took his cane and helped him walk to the SUV, where he nodded to Friarson and saw Seaborn's car coming up the drive. Without a word, or even looking in her direction, he nodded and got in the back seat, wincing a little at the tight squeeze. The Marshal in the drivers' seat moved his seat up and asked if he was more comfortable. Murdock nodded and closed his eyes.

Seaborn got out of her car, rushing up the sidewalk and looking confused. "What the hell is going on here?" she asked sharply, finally grabbing Shore by the arm. The Marshal shrugged helplessly.

"They're taking him back to Germany, Seaborn."

"What?" she shouted. "What? Are you joking?" She whirled around to find Friarson, and saw him getting into the SUV with Murdock, who was seated in the back, looking down. "Sir! Sir, what is going on?" she yelled.

"Calm down. You knew this would happen. I warned you that it would, sooner or later. The Army is running another investigation, but God knows how long that will take, and so the Army has demanded that Captain Murdock be returned to the mental hospital in Germany, where he'll be out of reach of the A-Team and anyone who might want to use him to their own ends." He gave her a pointed look. "You're also very lucky I'm _not_ running my own investigation regarding your personal relationship with Captain Murdock in the past week, Miss Buchanan. Meanwhile, I expect you to resume your hunt for the A-Team and bring them in posthaste. Goodbye." He hit the automatic window button and she stepped back. She dug in her pocket and found the tiny piece of paper and held it, reading and re-reading the words. When she looked up, she finally saw James looking at her, and the resignation in his eyes shattered her heart.

Ripley and Shore went back into the cottage to start packing up. Only Christine remained at her side, and the young woman placed a comforting hand on her arm. "It'll be okay," she finally said softly. "Just believe that. It will be okay, in the end."

Seaborn drew a shaky breath, not entirely sure if she would be able to take a step without falling on her face. "It's not going to be okay, Christine. Not for a long time."


	22. Knock

I don't write 'action' bits very well, so no matter how I tried to write out a gun battle scene or suchlike, it all just sounded dorky and ridiculous (kind of like _The Matrix)_, so I left the end in and went from there. Kind of a bummer chapter, except for the end, I think. Things will get better for Murdock…but it looks like things will get worse first.

* * *

After having spent a good portion of his adult life in mental hospitals, Murdock had developed a real talent for tuning things out.

It was like turning on white noise in his head. When the orderlies were berating him, or when some headshrinker was going on about his most recent misbehavior or act of outright rebellion, Murdock could turn on that pleasant empty noise in his brain and not hear a word anybody was saying to him. It helped him sleep, it helped him force food down his throat, it helped him put one foot in front of the other so he could go to and from the rec hall every day and pretend he was feeling okay.

He was seated at a table opposite Crazy Howie, who had set up the chess board with the pieces in the wrong places. Outside, rain was pouring down relentlessly, which meant that most of the patients in the hospital were quiet and even slightly drowsy. Howie had asked him to play chess, so he could stay awake and keep an eye out for anything that might grow out of the raindrops and attack the hospital.

In the past, during his previous stay, Murdock would have just played along, playing backwards chess, beating the other man hand over fist. In fact, backwards chess was less complicated than real chess. But not today. Today, he was in no mood for foolishness. Today, he was having a hard time bringing up the white noise, and his frustration was growing.

He had been in Mannheim for three months now. Three months – ninety-two days, to be exact, from the marks he had made on the wall behind his bed – of sitting around in pajama pants and T-shirts, wearing his candy-decorated robe and slippers, watching boring movies and listening to the other residents of the psych hospital babble to him about conspiracy theories and tiny space hamsters living in their bloodstream or why hadn't mommy come to visit, and so on and so on and so on. Three months of being either scolded by holier-than-thou orderlies or berated by ticked-off nurses or being asked a bunch of pointless questions by psychologists that had no freaking idea why he was so depressed.

The past three days in a row, his head had been pounding from an unrelenting migraine. The ECT sessions hadn't helped that, either – Dr Weintraub's idea of upping the voltage to the point of facility-wide blackouts hadn't had any effect on him, aside from nasty burnmarks on his temples and the ferocity of the migraine gaining power. After a while, even the square-jawed Teutonic neurologist had given up and thrown Murdock back into 'freedom' – that is, being allowed to wander the halls between his room and the recreation area.

"Aren't you gonna move?" Howie asked him anxiously, wringing his hands.

Murdock stared at him, his anger rising slowly, like magma up to the top of a volcano. Howie had been a Major, for God's sake. He was highly decorated soldier, with medals for bravery above the call of duty, including a Bronze Star - a Vietnam vet, who had served his country with honor and courage, and had come home to get spat on by scabies-infested, long-haired, pot-smoking college students from Berkeley who hadn't had a brave moment in their whiny, petty, Mom's-credit-card-financed little Che Guevara T-shirt wearing scumbag lives. Another tour of Nam and a stay at a POW camp had left Howie a shell of his former sell, a wreck, and finally, a castoff. Now his uniform was a dirty bathrobe, a stained T-shirt and striped pajama pants, and he had a hard time remembering his own name.

Murdock looked across the table at the other man, taking in his stubble-covered jaw, dull, lonely eyes and wild gray hair. Suddenly it hit Murdock – in another ten or fifteen years, he would be Howie. Lost, lonely, trapped in his own skull and not caring that he had no real way out any more. The ECT sessions would get harder and harder, the shocks eventually just sending him into either cardiac arrest or a total neural wipeout – a brain reset, the board clean, with no memories left, which was what they really wanted in the end, so he would behave. Nothing left but space hamsters and voices that weren't his own, with no say in his own future or his own life. He couldn't even choose what he ate.

It felt kind of like an explosion inside his own body. He didn't recognize or even process the fact that his arm had swept across the chessboard, knocking all the pieces across the room. He didn't hear himself yelling at Howie that he had set up the board _wrong_ and that there were no space hamsters, dammit, and Lee Harvey Oswald really was the shooter, and to please for Christ's sake snap out of this hell he was in, because the little Berkeley students were either still idiot Shining Pathers or had grown up and were Republicans with stock portfolios by now. He didn't' see Howie's bewildered expression, but he immediately felt horrible for having shouted at him. He started to apologize to him, but Howie only withdrew into himself and rolled away in his wheelchair.

He didn't hear the orderlies coming, carrying the straitjacket, and he didn't really take note of Dr Weintraub standing there, looking disgruntled. He went limp and let them wrap him up in the straitjacket, and didn't scream or kick or strain against the tight belts, because he knew it was pointless to try any more. He let them carry him to the rubber room and lay him on the floor. He didn't look at them, knowing they were smirking, amused to see a decorated combat pilot wrapped up like a burrito, with tears rolling down his face.

He lay down and closed his eyes, letting his mind go back to better days, when he hadn't been lost and alone and scared out of his mind. That was the only thing he had left to hang on to – the memories of his friends, and of holding Seaborn in his arms, the nightmares beaten back at last.

If he could just keep holding on…

* * *

Face sat across from Hannibal, seeing the bleakness in the old man's eyes. For three months, they had been keeping just one step ahead of the MP's and of the Federal Marshals. But now, things were definitely not looking good. In fact, from what he could tell of the dozens of cars parked outside the building, they were at their last stand. One step wasn't good enough any more. In the past, it had been two and sometimes three steps. But today…there were no more steps. This was it. They were done.

What Charissa had told him, three months before, had sent Face and the rest of the team into a tailspin of despair and grief. Murdock was back in that German hellhole, and he was allowed absolutely no visitors without express approval of the Army, which was still apparently quite convinced of their guilt. She had no access to even a small piece of information about the pilot, and even though she had tried to pull rank and get _something_, if only to just get Face to shut up and stop yelling at her, it had come to nothing.

The three men were basically still in mourning for the pilot. He was alone out there, abandoned, likely being abused mentally, if not physically, and being treated like he had no mind or will of his own. Like a child. It was making Face crazy, just thinking about it. The ECT sessions and the heartless psychologists and neurologists beating Murdock down until he lost his grip on the final shreds of his sanity and gave up. He would fall down into that abyss and might actually be gone forever, never able to come back.

"We have to surrender," Hannibal said. "We have no choice now."

"Bullshit!" B.A. shouted, standing up. "I ain't goin' back to prison, man. I ain't!"

"What then? You wanna charge out there and get shot to pieces?" Hannibal snapped. "You think I want to do this? I'm tired. I'm hungry and it's cold in here. I'm too old for this, boys. I'm _tired_." He stood up, slowly, and ran a hand through his hair. Finally, he grabbed Face's cell phone and dialed the only number he could call and be allowed to speak.

Seaborn answered on the first ring. "Buchanan."

"Miss Buchanan, I believe you've managed to pin us down."

"That's correct, Colonel. Are you surrendering?"

"What choice do we have? But we insist that just you and your team come in for us. No one else. We will cooperate."

"How am I supposed to believe that?" she asked him.

"Because you know…you know I am a man of my word. You _know_ that."

"All right. When we come in, you are to lay your weapons down and have your hands in the air. Am I understood?"

"Yes. We understand." Hannibal hung up and looked at his boys – his sons. "It's going to be all right. Just believe that."

B.A. was still shaking his head when the four Marshals came in. But he had his hands in the air, and all three men were surprised at how well they were treated. There was no roughing-up, no smug smiles, no 'accidental' shoves or knock-downs. Just calm and even a large degree of respectful politeness as they were frisked and handcuffed and led outside into the bright October sunlight.

Face studied Seaborn with interest, seeing that she was still as gorgeous as ever…but she looked different. In fact, she looked weary, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Had she been crying? "Seaborn?" he asked her gently. "Have you heard anything…?"

"Be quiet, Lieutenant. Put them in the car," she said, nodding toward the SUV. "Check them carefully for anything they can use to unlock their cuffs."

The Marshals checked each man over carefully, and were satisfied that all was well. Face got in first, followed by B.A. and finally, Hannibal, who looked out the window at Seaborn, who holstered her Glock and rubbed her forehead. The young woman looked exhausted, and even vaguely green around the gills. He almost wanted to apologize to her, for all the trouble they had put her through…and then he wanted to commend her for a job well done. Of all the federal law enforcement officers on the team's trail, he had the most respectful for her and her fellow Marshals, because from everything he had heard and seen so far, she was _fair_. Her work had been exemplary, and she had tracked them down on her own steam - and better yet, she believed them. When he finally caught her eye, he saluted her. She flinched and finally returned the salute before turning away. If he hadn't known any better, Hannibal could have sworn she was in mourning as well.

* * *

"Wait a minute…who ordered all this?" Charissa asked, staring down at the papers that had been shoved into her hands.

"Some general. High-up guy in the DOD. He's calling in favors right and left, from what I understand," Ravetch told her. "You ever hear of a General Lee Davison?"

"No, I don't know him," she shook her head. "But…he's ordering a _new_ trial?"

"Yep." Gammons took the papers and read them over again, amazed, while Ravetch called another number and was again denied access to information. He smacked the phone down, annoyed.

"What about Captain Murdock? Will he be tried again, too?"

"Dunno…ma'am," Ravetch shook his head. "All this is about Smith, Baracus and Peck," he said, pointing at the papers. "No mention of Murdock."

"Oh." She sat down again and stared the two men. "Well…and what about Vance Burress? Does he get a trial?"

"He's getting a friendly visit from some nice men from the CIA, apparently. Took 'em long enough to move, but…I don't think he's going to be very healthy afterwards, but I think maybe he'll be doing some talking. Maybe they were making sure they had all their ducks in a row before they did make a move."

"Good," she muttered, and grabbed her coat. "I have to go."

Ravetch and Gammons looked at each other and grinned, knowing exactly where Sosa was headed.

* * *

"Are you serious? A new trial?" Face leaned forward, studying Charissa carefully. "You're joking, right?"

"I'm not joking. Some general is ordering the case reopened and thoroughly investigated, followed by a fair and just trial, and they'll be bringing Vance Burress – the old Lynch – in to do a bit of 'splainin'."

Face sat back, stunned. "So when will it start? We'll all be tried together, right? And they'll bring Murdock back from Germany?" He looked most hopeful now, blue eyes wide and expectant.

"I don't know about that. Right now, it's all just…_forming_. I'm sorry, Face, but I just don't have that info yet. I'm still trying to track down this General Davison and see what he's about."

He sighed. "Charissa, you gotta get over there and see him. You have to, baby. You have to make sure he's okay. They mistreat him, okay? Maybe not beating him every day, but they aren't…kind to him. Please…please go see if he's okay. Talk to this Davison guy, see if you can cut through some of the red tape and…"

"I will do what I can right now, but I do have a _job_, and…"

"Charissa…" He touched the thick bullet-proof window separating them, and finally, she placed her fingertips against the glass as well, their fingertips only separated by inches. "He's my best friend. My _best friend_. It's killin' me, not knowin' how he is. _Please_."

She sighed. "I'll see what I can do. I can't make any promises. But I will try to find out. I will…okay?"

He seemed satisfied with that, and stood up. The MP took him away, and Charissa headed back out, already dialing when she got out in to the hall. "Hello? This is Captain Charissa Sosa, DCIS, I'm looking for a General Lee Davison…I need his number immediately. It's extremely important…no, _now_."

* * *

Seaborn sat in her office, holding a can of cold Dr Pepper against her forehead and praying for death.

She couldn't remember any time in her life that she had felt so utterly miserable. A case of food poisoning, back in high school, had put her in the hospital, and at the time, she had literally believed she was going to die. But this, whatever it was, was ten times worse. She couldn't hold anything down, she was exhausted all the time, and she felt like her bones weighed two tons each. Just trying to walk was like trying to slog her way through a swamp, and no amount of ginger ale, Alka-Seltzter and Pepto-Bismol seemed to make her stomach stop churning. At this point, eating anything was out of the question and she was surviving on saltless Saltine crackers (what were they called, then? Ines?) and water. She had lost weight in the past month due to all the vomiting and sobbing (she was also pretty well dehydrated), but in the past few days, she had noted that she was actually _gaining _weight, and all she wanted to do was sleep and cry.

Of course her reason for crying so much was due to losing James. She had been powerless to stop Friarson from taking him away, and the night he had been taken to LAX and flown to Germany, she had got in her bed, stared at the ceiling and started crying. Didn't stop, actually, until dawn, when she had dragged herself out of bed, dressed, and resolved in herself to catch the rest of the A-Team and otherwise go back to her previous existence. Glocks and Vanilla Fields perfume and lunches at Porter's Lighthouse with Kris and watching football and just living, if not being really alive. She also determined that she would not date anybody at all, because frankly, only one man was ever going to get into her pants, and that was James. If she never saw him again, so be it.

So she had at least experienced it, if only for one glorious, magical night. She knew that, even if he was away from her forever, he loved her. She just wished she had said the words back to him. She had planned to say it that night – put on that little outfit she had bought, repeat the Swahili phrase back to him and see his reaction. She knew he would look surprised, because he rarely was able to conceal his emotions very well, or for very long, and then she was going to spend that night showing him just how much she loved him. She was going to give him all she had, and leave nothing hidden. She belonged to him – it was that simple. Screw feminism, she thought, wincing against the fluorescent lights of her office. Seaborn Buchanan was a one-man woman, and always would be.

Carmen paused in the doorway, watching her pensively. "Miss Buchanan? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. What is it?"

"Captain Sosa is on line three. She says it's urgent."

"Right, right." Seaborn put the can down and picked up the line. "Yes…?"

"Seaborn? Hi, it's Charissa. Listen, they're getting a new trial. That means that…"

"Who is getting a new trial?" Seaborn asked, blinking against the lights again.

"The A-Team, Seaborn. Come on…get with the program here! That also means that they'll all have to be transported to D.C. for the trial. I'm trying to get some more info right now and will get…"

"Wait…wait a minute…all of them? All of the A-Team?"

"Yep. We're trying to get in contact with the hospital in Germany where Murdock is being held, but…that's proving difficult. I'm on my way to a meeting with somebody right now, and I'll call you back soon, okay? Just…uh…hang in there or…hey, _I'm driving here!_…listen, I'll call you back!" She hung up and Seaborn stared down at the phone, bewildered, elated and terrified all at once.

She looked up to see Carmen still standing in the doorway. "What?" she asked, exasperated.

"You don't look so good, Miss Buchanan. Maybe you should go see your doctor."

"How…how do I look?"

"Green."

"Oh." She sighed and sat back in her chair. Carmen finally came in and stood in front of Seaborn's desk, studying her with obvious concern. Suddenly, the Marshal jumped to her feet, hand over her mouth. Carmen made a startled 'eep!' sound and watched Seaborn dash toward the bathrooms.

"Really, really green."

* * *

"So…Seaborn, how are we feeling today?" Dr Keller asked, looking down at her chart and frowning at her. He was in his mid-forties, with graying sandy hair and a strong build. He had been recommended to her by Kris, and she had developed a fairly good rapport with him in the past few years. She had only ever come in for yearly checkups and shots, and otherwise avoided medical help if she could, and since she was in almost perfect, she had had no reason to come in. She noted that her chart was kind of…thin.

"I don't know about you, doc, but I feel like crap."

Keller raised an eyebrow and studied his patient quietly, taking in her miserable pallor. The usually feisty young woman was obviously not herself. "So what are your symptoms?"

"Can't hold a damn' thing down. I feel listless and fatigued. My arms and legs feel heavy, but I lost weight recently and am now gaining weight. I get confused easily…"

"Do you cry a lot?" he asked, checking her lymph glands and listening briefly to her heart.

"Constantly. I cried yesterday when the mail was late," she answered dully. "I'm afraid to watch any Lifetime movies, that's for sure.

He checked her lungs, asking her to breathe in and out. "Lungs are clear. Heart's excellent, as usual." He pursed his lips, thinking and forming his words carefully. "Last time I saw you, you were still…uh…not sexually active, right?"

"Yeah…" She swallowed and rubbed her arms, feeling chilly. Why were doctor's offices always so chilly? And why were the damned instruments always so cold? And why didn't doctors ever think to warm their hands before breast exams? Not that she was old enough to require that type of scrutiny, but it was a question she had heard countless women ask.

"Have you had sexual intercourse lately?"

Seaborn felt her cheeks warming. "Um…yes…"

"When was your last period, Seaborn?"

Her eyes widened, and she started shaking her head. "Perio-…what? Are you joking? We used protection!" she gasped. "No, no, I can't be…I can't…"

"Condoms aren't one-hundred perfect effective, Seaborn, and sometimes, they break. I'll get a test, but the symptoms are all there."

"But I…" She shook her head wildly. "It can't be. I can't be! It's…it has to be something else…"

"Okay, so when _did_ you have your last period?"

"I…don't remember." She flushed, embarrassed. Her periods were as regular as dandelions – four days, every month, like clockwork (fortunately _sans_ PMS). But she had been under so much stress lately, and her mind had been on so many other things, it hadn't even really registered with her that nothing was happening down there. But nothing _had_ happened since… "Oh God…"

"Right. I'll send Charlotte in to go over the test with you, and we'll go from there, okay?"

Seaborn answered him by bursting into tears. The doctor opened the door and barked for his nurse to come comfort the young woman on the exam table. The nurse came in quietly, and put her arm around Seaborn's shoulders, letting her cry as long as she needed to.

* * *

"Now…so…uh…you have your options, of course," Keller said, holding up the little wand. On its tip, the little plus sign confirmed her pregnancy, and Seaborn stared at it, wide-eyed.

"I'm not having an abortion, if that's what you're suggesting," Seaborn said sharply, still staring at the wand. _Positively pregnant_.

"Of course not, and besides that, I don't perform them and don't refer. So…there's adoption…"

Seaborn shifted in her seat. She was cried out for now, and felt even more exhausted. Cleaned, like a tub, scrubbed and dried out. Pregnant, after just one night! Yes, she and James had made love several times, and Keller was right about condoms – and she had never been on the Pill in her life – but it was still a shock. A major, life-changing shock. She was having a _baby_. Another person was going to depend on her, even now, for its health and happiness and future…

"I don't really know what to…to think about, now."

"Right. You don't have to make any major decisions now. I take it the father is out of the picture?"

She looked down. "I don't know."

He spread his hands out, looking slightly exasperated. "Well…either he is or he isn't, Seaborn…"

"He's…abroad."

"Oh."

"It's all very complicated, Doctor. Extremely complicated."

"I see. But he does have a right to know. That's his baby, too, no matter how you may feel about him now."

She nodded. "Yes. I know."

"Anyway…" Keller closed her chart and went to a cabinet, from which he extracted some boxes. "Here are some pre-natal vitamins, and this folic acid will help you get your energy back. The morning sickness…well, every woman is different, so I can't say that it will go away. It might, it might not, it might get worse, before it gets better. You have extremely high metabolism and are in excellent health, though, so right now I would think – and hope, for your sake – that it does fade away on its own. But if you continue with this nausea and vomiting, and can't hold food down, we'll have to take a different tack. Right now, though, just try to get through it as best you can and call me in another week."

She nodded and he put the boxes in a plastic bag. "Right. When…when am I due?" Had he told her? She couldn't remember, and right now, she was having trouble thinking clearly. Everything was running around in her head – the conception itself, the past three months of feeling unwell and now she was so sick she could barely crawl, and now…_pregnant._

Keller did some quick calculating. "Let's see…you say the baby was conceived on…August the first? Then you're due in the last week of April. You're at twelve weeks now, so you've moved into your second trimester. Tell me, did you experience any similar symptoms before now?"

"I've been…kind of…off before," she admitted. "Irritable, and not sleeping well, and…a little nauseated." Her heart started beating more rapidly. "I'm…I'm having…a _baby_…"

"Yes, you are, Seaborn."

"I don't even like children!" she gasped. "I can't even stand most of the horrible little monsters! I mean, Kris's kids are okay in small doses, but…"

Keller laughed. "Believe me, you're going to adore this one. I have three of them. You can't help yourself when they're your own. And yeah, other people's kids get on my nerves too."

She touched her belly and thought about James. She didn't know what he was doing, or how he was feeling, or if he was being treated well. She wondered how he would react to this news – would he panic, or be angry, or…did he even like children? She didn't know. She had never seen him around any. Considering his outgoing personality and energy, she suspected kids liked him quite a lot.

Slowly, she stood and after mumbling her thanks, she left the office and walked back toward her office. She was going to have to tell Friarson, who would be fairly pissed and would also easily deduce who had gotten her pregnant, which would lead to an unpleasant interview. There was also the notion of maternity leave. Then she'd have to buy a bunch of baby stuff, which she knew zilch about, and then there would be hemorrhoids and cramping and stretch marks and weight gain and needing to pee all the time…and labor, which she understood hurt a bit, and then there would be this tiny, demanding person in her life who would need her far more than the US Marshals ever could.

She would have to think of a name for it, and what kind of life she wanted it – she? he? – to have. Seaborn knew all the statistics – babies being raised by single mothers had the deck stacked against them from the start. How many criminals had she arrested that had one unsettling thing in common: no fathers with them while they were growing up, that's what. It wasn't a politically correct fact, but it was still a fact and she stood on the sidewalk, thinking about this unhappy detail.

"I'll do my best for you," she said softly. "I'll do my best. I promise I will. I'm just as much an amateur at all his as you are…whatever your name is." She looked up at the sky and sighed. "Okay, so I made a mistake," she told God, who had never let her down. "It was my mistake, though, right? Not this baby's. Babies aren't mistakes. Life is _never_ a mistake." She touched her belly again, completely ignoring the people walking around her, some of them eyeing her and moving more quickly as she spoke again. "This is his baby, too. He wasn't a mistake. I will never call him a mistake. Never."

Feeling just a little better, Seaborn nodded and continued walking toward home. She had some planning to do.


	23. Up

Really, this just kinda happened. I was digging around online for stuff about pregnancy (having never experienced it myself, and knowing for certain that I never will!) and it all seemed rather right. Pregnancy calendars are an interesting read, by the way. The lists of all the stuff that happens and doesn't happen. I'm trying to figure out what kinds of cravings Seaborn will have, for instance. First thing I thought of: ice cream!

So anyway. On with the show. Murdock finally has an ally! Yay!

* * *

To say that Kris was stunned was a masterpiece of the understatement.

Seaborn nervously fiddled with the coffee cup, then started playing with the sugar dispenser, the little ceramic thing that held the fake sugar packets, and finally started in on her still-wrapped knife and fork, watching her friend's reaction to the news. She unwrapped the utensils and started tearing the napkin to pieces, reducing it to shreds. The nurse stared across the table at her, speechless.

"Are you okay? Gonna faint?"

Kris blinked a couple of times, and finally shook her head. "No…I'm…just…wow. _Pregnant_. Are you happy about it?"

"I'm getting used to the idea," Seaborn admitted. It had been two weeks since she had learned of her pregnancy, and she still hadn't told Friarson or anyone else, for that matter. She had come within a couple of stammered sentences of telling Charissa, but she worried that the DCIS officer might actually spill the news to Face, who might somehow get the news to James, who would either freak out or try to break out of the hospital in Mannheim and only cause more trouble for himself. If anyone was going to tell him, however, Seaborn was determined that it be herself.

"Have you told Captain Murdock?"

Seaborn shook her head. "He's still in Germany."

Kris had consoled Seaborn, a few days after Murdock had left for Germany. The two women had sat in Kris's living room, the redhead finally breaking down into tears while Kris fed her chocolate and tried to think of something to say that would make her feel better. Frankly, the only thing that had actually done any good was the chocolate and _Sleepless in Seattle_, and even then, Seaborn had been pretty weepy. That should have been the first sign that something was definitely off, actually, now that she thought about it.

"How far along…oh, yeah. About…what, four months?"

"Exactly sixteen weeks and two days, yeah." Seaborn laughed softly, tracing her finger around the rim of the coffee cup. "It's a little scary, I admit, but…but I already love this baby. Fiercely."

"That's normal. How about the morning sickness?"

"Horrific, but getting a little better, finally. It was awful at first – just terrible, which should have really been a sign, but I wasn't really thinking of _pregnancy_. Thought maybe I had some kind of stomach virus. But I ate a whole bowl of tomato soup last night and it stayed down."

"Oh, well, that's good. Make sure to eat plenty of protein, too, and take your folic acid, and walk every day. Light exercise and plenty of sleep are your two best friends right now, believe me. What about your boss? I'm not sure Friarson will be pleased to hear you're carrying the baby of your former prisoner, Seaborn."

"No, he won't. He won't like it at all." She sighed. "But what's done is done, and…well, I just have to live with the consequences. I'm telling him about it today."

"Brave girl…good luck. But to be fair, he's a pretty decent guy. He'll be mad, but I can't see him firing you and throwing you and your baby into collecting food stamps and living on welfare – and it's illegal to fire someone because they got pregnant. You're an excellent Marshal, Seaborn. Having a baby won't change that."

"No, it won't. But it'll be hard to chase down federal fugitives with a huge stomach and swollen ankles. It might be funny to watch, but yet still rather ineffective."

"That's true. I had enough trouble keeping up with Jake when I was pregnant with Isabella." Kris sighed and sat back in her seat. "Seaborn, you're going to be an great mommy."

"I have doubts about that. I don't know anything about it. I never had a mom, and my father didn't know diddly nor squat about being a parent. He treated me like a boy…I swear, he nearly had a stroke when I asked him why I was _bleeding_ that day, when I was thirteen…"

Kris smiled. "Yes, but you did grow up in a fairly stable atmosphere. And now look at you…very definitely a girl!"

"A pregnant girl. A kanockenedup und schvingel girl." Seaborn cleared her throat nervously when the waitress finally appeared and asked them what they wanted to eat. "I'll…have the rib-eye steak please – medium well. With a baked potato and…do y'all have okra?"

"We shall declare the morning sickness gone, and the cravings have now commenced," Kris nodded. The waitress smiled, took Kris's order and left. Seaborn sat back and sighed.

"That's true. I haven't felt very nauseated at all lately. But God, it was intense. I mean…it was _intense_. Now that it's gone, though, all I can think about is food."

"Eat plenty of fiber, too, and stay away from salty stuff, because that'll be hell on your ankles. And never get too far away from a bathroom, because you will definitely need one every…oh…five or ten minutes. That kid's gonna be playin' racquetball on your bladder, too, so get ready. Have you had an ultrasound yet?"

"I'm having one this afternoon," Seaborn sighed. "Kris, what if there's something wrong?" she asked anxiously. She thought about James's own history of mental illness, and the fact that she knew nothing about her own family history…it was definitely something to be concerned about. But then again, James's problems came from external factors, not anything genetic. From what little had been in his family information, however, there had been no mention of a history of mental illness in his genes. The only comments had been stuff about 'far above-average IQs' among his family members and James's own 1800 SAT score. He had graduated from high school at sixteen…

"Everything will be fine," Kris rolled her eyes, laughing. "I was just as worried, though. It's normal to be worried, of course."

"What about you?" Seaborn asked. "Hank still wanting another baby?"

Kris laughed. "We're working on it. Which is just…_so much fun_."

"Yes. It is pretty fun, isn't it?"

They both stared at each other, until Seaborn finally broke down and started laughing.

"I admit…that was the best part."

* * *

"All right," Dr Keller said. "Here we go…"

Seaborn tucked one arm under her head and lay still, shivering a little because of the cold goop on her belly.

"Already starting to show just a tad," he said, brow furrowing a bit as he started moving the transducer across her stomach. He smiled. "Everything is looking good – you're gaining weight at the right rate. Nausea's gone, too?"

"Yes, finally. I'm already having a hard time fitting into my clothes," she admitted. "I've started eating, too…and the cravings…right now, I want ice cream. Lots of ice cream. Chocolate and banana-flavored ice cream in particular. There's a store here in Long Beach that sells Blue Bell. I ate two Bomb Sticks before I came here. I want another one."

He nodded and grinned. "Sounds about right. There…I hear the heartbeat and…" He paused and looked up at her.

"What?" she asked, immediately panicked. "What? What's wrong?"

"Seaborn, I hear a second heartbeat."

She stared at him, the enormity of his statement slowly sinking in. "Please don't tell me you hear a third," she whispered.

He moved the transducer around some more. "No…no, just two. Twins. You're having twins!" He hit a button on the ultrasound machine. "Listen."

She put her head back, eyes wide, listening to her baby…her _babies'_…heartbeats, which sounded like fast, swishy little woosh-wooshes. The closest sound she could think of that, that was comparable, was the sound of an old washing machine going into final spin. Tears filled her eyes, and Keller finally stopped the exam and wiped away the goop.

"Everything looks very good, Seaborn. We'll do an amniocentesis next week and make sure all is well, but from what I'm seeing, the heartbeats are normal and they're both at the exact size they should be."

"H-How big are they?" she asked, still dazed.

"About twenty grams each, and about…eh…four inches long each." He started printing out the image, and Seaborn sat up, pulling her shirt down. He handed the print to her, and she stared down at it, still dazed.

"What the hell am I looking at?" she finally asked him, turning the picture over a few times.

Keller laughed and pointed at the two dots. "There's one head…and there's the other. Good images, I must say."

"They look like tadpoles!" she squeaked, alarmed. "Oh, God, why didn't I pay more attention in biology? I _hated _that class. We dishonored the bodies of frogs and pigs, and that's about it. We never talked about…any of this stuff…" She immediately felt like a fool. Like she couldn't have Googled it, at least? Of course, she could have also purchased better condoms…

The doctor laughed again, and was joined by his nurse, who looked down at the image with a smile.

"They're already beautiful, Seaborn. Just beautiful."

"Yes…" She touched the two little images and sighed, still dazed. "Two of everything…two cribs, two car seats, two more tons of diapers…"

Charlotte giggled and Keller smiled. "Very true. But it's all worth it."

Tears blurred Seaborn's vision. "I just wish James was here," she whispered. "God, I wish he was here."

"I know," Charlotte said gently.

Keller became brisk. "In another two weeks, we'll do another ultrasound and more a much more comprehensive checkup, plus amniocentesis and a pelvic exam, so just prepare yourself for that. You may want to think about whether you want to know the babies' sexes, too."

"I'll definitely want to know," Seaborn admitted. "I like to be prepared for all contingencies, if I can."

* * *

The orderlies were having a hard time with all the patients. It was a bright, sunny, late autumn day, and outside the sky was a deep, gorgeous cerulean blue, without a single cloud, and the kids definitely wanted out into the light. That, however, was not allowed. Dr Weintraub was adamant about that – fresh air and sunshine seemed to make them all behave far worse, in his opinion.

Edith Nance went over charts at the nurse's station, glancing up sometimes when a patient shuffled by, giving each one a warm and friendly smile. She glanced down the hall, noting that Weintraub was nowhere to be seen – he discouraged being friendly toward the patients, as it encouraged them to…be happy or something equally egregious. Psych patients weren't allowed to be happy, according to him. They were to be firmly disciplined and taught to obey, not indulged in their follies.

She had been a nurse at various psych facilities for almost twenty years now, and Edith had developed a reputation for her ability to deal with even the most out-of-control patients. She had a knack for it, particularly from training and experience, but mostly from just having a natural instinct for it. Most nursing students she had gone to school with dreaded their psych rotations, but she had found the experience ceaselessly interesting and challenging, and as soon as she had a chance to pick a specialty, she had picked it, to the horror of her friends. After twenty years, it was just as interesting, and also very fulfilling. If she could help just one of the patients each day, she felt she was doing something good. She was doing God's work, in her way of thinking.

Looking up again, she saw Captain Murdock emerge from his room. As usual, he was wearing his robe, with its bizarre epaulettes from which dangled pieces of red licorice, like a South American dictator, with the front of the robe spangled with candy 'medals'. He was using his cane to walk, and that made her frown. He was supposed to be receiving physical therapy to help him recover from knee surgery back in Los Angeles, but so far, he hadn't seen a single therapist since his return to Mannheim. He had apparently been doing the work on his own, with a large degree of success, because he only seemed to need the cane when he was really tired. Which seemed like always.

She had come to like all of the patients on the ward. They all had mental and emotional issues of varying degrees of severity, but simple compassion and respect brought out the best in them all. Sitting down and playing a game of backwards chess with Howie, for instance, would occasionally get him to talk a little bit and even make some sense. Leon, who kept talking about his lost marbles, would focus and even maintain eye contact if she read _Peter Pan_ to him, and soon he'd be talking to her about cars and tanks and how to dress a rifle in less than five seconds. The other patients all had something that calmed them if they were given a chance to focus on it, and when they were focused, they would find their own voices again. No matter how ill they were, Edith firmly believed they had something to say, and somebody ought to listen.

Captain Murdock, however, was different. She had noticed that from the very beginning. He had apparently been a patient here about four months before, but had been busted out of the facility by his friends. She glanced down through the rec hall and saw the door to the movie-screening room and couldn't keep from smiling. A Humvee had burst through the wall in there – contractors were currently replacing the it with thicker cinder blocks, before winter set in, and no one was allowed in there. _Particularly_ Captain Murdock.

In his previous stay, he had been outgoing, talkative, and even friendly, according to the other nurses (all of whom had genuinely liked him, and still did). He was the one who sat with Howie, playing backwards chess, or talked about marbles with Leon or did Miss Piggy imitations for Carl, who sometimes believed he was Kermit the Frog. But now…he was much different. He was quiet and withdrawn, and only rarely left his room any more. He made no demands for anything, ate what was put in front of him, and aside from his explosive outburst a week before, had behaved extremely well.

That in itself was frightening to Edith. Having questioned the other nurses (never the orderlies, who were to a man the most unimaginative and uncompassionate group of people she had ever encountered), she knew that his behavior was extremely unusual. "Captain Murdock is never sad," one of the younger nurses had told him. "He's the sweetest man I've ever met, and funny, too…but now…it's painful to see him so sad. It's like he's heartbroken."

He had lost weight, too, she noted sadly, and rarely interacted with anyone – not even Howie. In fact, from the chart she was looking at now, he was twenty pounds underweight, having shed it all in just four months. His eyes were dull, and sometimes he even looked confused and scared. Someone had cut his hair much shorter, so that it stood up in odd little cowlicks and whorls – the haircut had obviously been some kind of punishment for some minor infraction. He looked gaunt and pale, and the burn marks on his temples had only just started to heal. The way he looked now reminded her of those old news reels of the POW and concentration camps opened up after WWII. He wasn't _that_ thin yet, but the light was gone from his eyes, according to the other nurses.

"Captain Murdock," she said, moving around the desk and looking around to make sure His Teutonic Coldness, as Dr Weintraub was called by the nurses, was nowhere to be seen. "Captain? Hi…do you remember me?"

"Yeah. Edith," he nodded vaguely.

"Would you like to play some chess? Or…uh…maybe we'll find a book to read?"

"Don't feel like readin'," he told her dully.

"I could read to you."

"Are you from Tennessee?" he asked her.

"No…" She shook her head, brow furrowed.

"No thanks, then."

She paused, pondering that, and tried again. "Then how about chess? I'll set up the board and we'll play chess."

He sighed and shrugged. "All right."

Edith grabbed a chessboard and the box of pieces and went into the rec room, where Captain Murdock was already seated at a table, hunched over, staring at the floor. She sat down opposite him and began setting up the board – the black queen was missing, and had been replaced with a little figurine of Dopey from _Snow White & the Seven Dwarves_ – and began talking quietly to him, asking him about anything she could think of that might peak his interest.

"So you're a pilot," she said, casting a line out for him, hoping he might snag it.

"Was."

"Are," she shook her head. "Once a pilot, always a pilot. My father was a fighter pilot, in Korea. He loves to fly. Always will, even after having retired from Delta – he still does some flight instructing. What's your favorite type of plane?"

"Choppers…I like Hueys," he finally said, studying her carefully. Edith was in her mid-forties, plump and attractive, with color-rinsed blonde hair and snapping blue eyes. She had been described by her friends as 'mischievous', and it was a fairly good assessment of her character and personality, because she loved to laugh and frequently pulled pranks on her colleagues. She had been married almost twenty years, and had just become a grandmother three months before – a subject she had a hard time avoiding talking about. She knew that Murdock had heard her talking about the baby.

She waited, wondering. She knew he had a sharp, and extremely independent, mind and that he was extremely observant. Even with his obvious depression, she knew he listened and watched.

"Got a picture of your grandson?" he asked her.

_Score_! she thought, smiling inwardly. "Of course I do!" She pulled the picture out of her pocket and showed it to him, glowing with pride. "My daughter…my baby…is a mother now. Amazing. That's little Daniel Hugh. I didn't like the Hugh much, but his father is English and he wanted an English-y type name."

He studied the picture of the chubby, brightly smiling baby. "Yeah. Cute little anklebiter." He handed the picture back. Edith smiled warmly.

"Yes, he is adorable. I've only seen him twice so far – I went back to Tuscon for his birth, and then I got to go home this past Christmas and I don't think his mother was allowed to hold him the entire time. Meanwhile, thank _God_ for Facebook. My daughter posts pictures of him almost every day. He's growing and trying to walk now and saying his first words." Edith paused, thinking carefully. "Just wait 'til you have babies, Captain. It's hard to not talk about them."

He looked down for a moment, and she saw him forming his words carefully.

"I wanted to," he finally said. "Crazy people aren't allowed to have kids."

Edith sighed, wanting to dispute that very idea, but realized she was making some progress with him. He was talking, and that was good. "It's your move, Captain," she said.

"Everybody here calls me Mr Murdock," he said, with just a trace of bitterness in his voice.

"Well, you're a Captain, aren't you?" she said, nodding and caught his shrug. "You didn't go through officer training and years of combat and service to your country just to be called _Mister_ Howdeeyadoo. So…_Captain_. And so long as Dr Weintraub isn't around, I will make sure the staff calls you _Captain_."

Edith watched his face for a reaction, and at first he seemed to resist the notion, but finally he did something she hadn't seen him do in four long months: Captain James Murdock actually smiled.

* * *

Seaborn knocked lightly on the doorframe, watching Friarson snap at someone on the phone before smacking it down again and looking up at her. "Yes?"

"I need to talk to you, sir," she said.

"Right. Come on in." He gestured to her to enter, and she quietly closed the door behind her. She sat down slowly, wishing she had gone ahead and worn that black skirt with the elastic waistband, because the pants she was wearing now were rather _snug_. Well, actually, just too damned tight. Enough of this being in fashion denial. Time to buy clothes that look like awnings and practice your waddle, she told herself.

"Sir, I…need to tell you something kind of…important. I…uh…" She began wringing her hands, which always gave away her anxiety. She forced her hands into fists and looked him right in the eye. "I'm pregnant, sir."

Friarson looked for a moment as though he thought she was telling a joke, and seemed to expect a punchline. But he finally leaned forward, hands on his desk. "What?"

"I'm pregnant, sir," she repeated. "In fact, I'm pregnant with twins."

"Tw…holy…I mean…uh…I see." He blinked, sitting back in his chair, staring at her in disbelief.

"My doctor says that there's no reason that I can't continue working for another month or so, so long as I don't do anything strenuous, which of course means I'll have to be consigned to desk work, but…"

"And how far along…are you?" he asked her, and she could see him pulling himself back together and setting his mental calculator. She swallowed.

"Sixteen weeks. Exactly four months."

He stared at her, pursing his lips and finally leaning forward. "I have no right to ask you who the father is, Seaborn. That's against the law. I also have no right to meddle in your personal life, or to even dismiss you. But if I could…" He frowned. "No…no, I wouldn't…I don't think I could…

"Fire me," she nodded. "And you're right – you couldn't, without a lawsuit." She lifted her chin only a little, still looking him square in the eye.

Friarson nodded. "And you did manage to catch the A-Team, in spite of your…condition…" He scratched his ear. "Made it look easy, once you really were _focused_." He frowned at her, and she pinked, looking down. She hadn't been focused on catching the A-Team. She had been focused on James, and she knew it. But there was no use wishing things had been different, and Seaborn frankly had no interest in wishing things were different. She didn't really wish they were different at all, in fact.

She nodded. "I was…yes. I was, finally, focused. And from what I'm hearing so far, they have a very good chance of being exonerated, which means I can say I did my job quite well, sir." She swallowed. "Once I've had the babies, and have had my maternity leave, I will be back to work, just like normal."

"And who will take care of your children, Seaborn?" he asked her.

"I have…well, I have…friends. Kris, of course…"

"Who is a nurse, with a busy schedule and a family of her own." Friarson sat back in his seat, and waved his hands. "No, no…I'm not trying to paint a bad picture here for you, kid. But being a parent is hard, even when you're married. It takes time and energy, and doing it alone…listen...I know this is very politically incorrect, but babies need their moms, okay? Raising these babies will be the most important thing you'll ever do."

"I can do it, sir. I can do anything I set my mind to. I...already promised _them_."

"Good God, I know you can." He rubbed his face and sighed. "I don't think I need to guess who the father is, do I?"

"No, sir, you don't. But…it's not…"

"My business." He nodded and actually smiled at her. "I know. Good luck…Mommy."

She smiled softly, feeling vastly relieved. She got up slowly, wincing a little at the tightness of her pants, and left his office quietly. Out in the hallway, she met Christine, who gestured for her to follow her. "What?"

"They're getting a new trial!" the young Marshal said excitedly. "Unfortunately, it won't be for another five months. Can you believe that? Anyway, Carmen sent me to find you – she says you have to call somebody back…somebody called…" She looked down at the pink Post-It note in her hand. "Right…a General Davison."

Seaborn stared down at General Davison's number, took a deep breath, and grabbed her phone, dialing the number and waiting. Two rings, and a crisp female voice answered. "General Lee Davison's office. How may I help you?"

"Hi, I'm Seaborn Buchanan, with the Federal Marshal's office. I was told to return General Davison's call…"

"I'll put you right through, ma'am."

Almost immediately, she heard a deep Kentucky drawl. "Miss Buchanan? I'm glad to finally hear from you, ma'am."

"How do you know me?" she asked him, bewildered.

"Eh…I don't guess you do, do you? Prob'ly blocked a lot of stuff out, which I suppose is understandable. I pulled a few strings for you, some years ago, to get you moved to a good room at the hospital at Tomahawk, and then I got you honorably discharged and sent home with a commendation and a good pension…not that I'm braggin' or anything. It was just the right thing to do."

"Oh…" She sat back in her chair, stunned. "Yes. Yes, I remember now…I'm sorry, sir, but…"

"No matter. I'm just a General, and a rather gray one at that. Listen, I only wanted to thank you."

"For…for what?" she asked, still bewildered. A four star general calling _her_? To thank her?

"For catchin' the A-Team and seein' to it that they finally get a fair trial. That can't have been easy, since they're a wily bunch, so I figure you must have some real guts plus brains. Meanwhile, I've been pullin' strings and callin' in favors right and left, to get them another trial, and one thing I've learned over the years is the art of currying favors and…well, yes, manipulatin' people here and there. It has to be done sometimes, y'know, or nothing ever gets done. But Colonel Smith is a good man, and I know his boys are, too. They're the best special ops unit the Army has had in decades, and what was done to them was an outrageous miscarriage of justice. Oh, and if you happen to get a chance to speak with a fella by the name of Vance Burress, just say the following word to him and he'll start talkin' about his hand in this whole nasty mess: Budapest."

"Budapest?"

"Yep. You talk to that boy, hear me? All right, darlin', I've gotta go. Lots of work to do, and the wife's got pot roast waitin' for supper. When you see Smith and his boys again, tell 'em I said hello, all right?"

"Yes…yes, sir…" she stammered. He hung up and she sat there, holding the phone, eyes wide. She put it down and sat back, touching her belly. Carmen came in just then, studying her curiously before sitting down. She was holding a stack of files and balanced them in her lap.

"Are you all right, Miss Buchanan?" she finally asked, leaning forward and actually looking concerned.

"Five months," she whispered.

"Huh?"

"Oh…uh…nothing. Nothing. Carmen, I think you'll be very interested to know that I am expecting twins."

Carmen looked completely flummoxed. "Twins?" she finally repeated.

"Yes. Twins. Two babies. I'm pregnant, Carmen."

"Oh." The secretary cast about, totally at a lost for words.

"Which means that I will go on maternity leave next month. Which means that you'll probably be assigned to someone else until I come back. Maybe you'd like to work for…Christine Magnusson? She needs somebody to handle her paperwork, that's for certain. She's a terrible speller, but an outstanding Federal Marshal."

"You're _pregnant_?" Carmen stage whispered. "Really? Wow! Oh, geez…that's…amazing. I didn't even know you…I mean, I was starting to think maybe you were a les-…I mean, even then, I guess you could still get preg…"

"Carmen?" Seaborn rolled her eyes toward her holster, which was hanging on the coatrack. "See the Glock?"

"Yes…"

"Pregnancy doesn't prevent me from using that thing. Listen, do you want to work for Christine or not?"

"Yes…I…I'm sorry, Miss Buchanan. I…"

"It's all right. I know you didn't mean it. You barely have a thought in your little head, do you? But it's okay. Perhaps you could type up these letters for me, and in the meantime I need to make a few phone calls. And there's no use in me telling you not to tell anybody about my pregnancy, as I can see you're already texting the news to everybody in the office and probably even people who don't even know me!" She nodded, and Carmen put away her iPhone, turning pink.

"Right…right…I'm…well…uh…congratulations…"

"Yes. Thank you, Carmen. You can go now."

Carmen got up, staggering a little as she made her way to the door. She looked back at Seaborn, and seemed to be about to say something, but she stopped herself in time and finally left. She sat down at her desk, and Seaborn could see her whipping out the iPhone again. It wasn't long before various agents were reading their own messages and looking up, wide-eyed, toward's Seaborn's office.

Seaborn shrugged and snatched up her phone, dialing DCIS and asking to speak with Captain Sosa, her fingers lightly caressing her belly, thinking that her babies were going to have some pretty interesting stories to tell some day.


	24. Details

With props to _Fawlty Towers_…

* * *

Seaborn was rather amused by the expressions on their faces.

Smith was the only one who looked surprised, but then, she figured he had pretty much given up, which in itself was rather sad. Peck looked like he was going to start dancing around the room, and she made a mental note to warn him to not try to get her involved. Baracus looked completely fumbuzzled – a word her father had often used to describe someone who was not just gobsmacked but also flabbergasted.

"Really? All the way back to D.C., huh?" Hannibal asked at last. "And five months of sitting around waiting?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. General Davison wasn't able to get the trial scheduled any sooner. He, too, is at the mercy of time and justice. You're all leaving tomorrow morning."

The way the men had greeted each other, she would have thought they hadn't seen each other in years. Hugs and breath-stealing smacks on the back and punches on the arm and laughing, like any loving family of men who had been through hell together more times than they cared to think about. Then the jokes had started, then the grouching about bad food and why hadn't they been given any useful information and talking over each other, squabbling and kvetching and just being typical _guys_. It was actually sweet, to see how much they genuinely cared for each other.

Peck was studying her carefully, and seemed about to ask a really, really stupid question, but wisely chose to keep his yap shut. She eyed him narrowly and gestured for them all to sit down. The guards had removed their handcuffs, at her orders, and they all kept rubbing their wrists. She thought of the mark on James's wrist, and sighed. At one point during that night – _La Concepcion_, Kris had called it – she had kissed the mark and apologized to him for it. He hadn't seemed to mind that much. In fact, the handcuffs had come into play at one point…

Last night, she had sat up late, running through every _particular_ lovemaking session she had had with James (as if she hadn't gone over them all before, relishing each memory), trying to narrow down which one had been the one that got her pregnant. She had been a little too embarrassed to ask Dr Keller about that, and finally decided it could have been any of them. Today, she would be going for her amniocentesis and would find out what the babies' sexes were.

So far, she still wasn't wearing maternity clothes. At this point, it was stretchy-waisted black pants and tops, so that at least from the front she still looked relatively thin. Only from the side did she exhibit very obvious signs of her pregnancy. Even now, she was making sure to stand facing people, but backing away from them before leaving a room made her feel like she was leaving the royal Presence. People still tended lean to one side and try to figure it out. She saw that look from Face again, who was finally tilting to one side, looking very curious.

"How're you doin'?" he finally asked, when she angled away from his tilt.

"I'm quite well, Lieutenant, thank you. Listen, I need all of you to cooperate with me about this flight to D.C. No funny stuff, no escape attempts, no unpleasantness. Just be good boys and let us transport you."

"I have to fly?" B.A. asked, looking uneasy.

"I'm afraid so, Sergeant. The Marshals haven't used trains in quite a while."

"Aw…damn…" He began to crack his knuckles, a sure sign of nervousness or a coming temper tantrum. Neither of which would be pretty. She had flown with him once before, and she could have sworn he had started _crying_.

"Speaking of flying…" Hannibal began.

"How's Murdock?" Face finished for him. "Is he okay?"

"I really don't know," she answered. "I have not been able to obtain any information. He's at the hospital in Mannheim, and that's about all I have now."

"Jesus…" Face whispered. "If they're mistreating him…"

She looked down. That was her main concern as well. She didn't know a great deal about mental hospitals, but she had no reason to believe they were places where compassion and good cheer were frequent visitors. And the idea that the father of her babies was trapped in there was one that gave her more than a few sleepless nights. "I'm sure…I'm sure he's doing…fine," she finally said, but knew her statement was based more on hope than actual fact.

"How about you?" Hannibal asked her quietly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Really." she said, standing up. But that was a mistake – she wavered, and felt a brief moment of dizziness. Keller had told her that she would experience that sometimes, and not to worry about it unless she actually fainted or had a blackout. Just the same, her wobble made all three men jump to their feet, with Face grabbing her elbow and helping her back into her chair. He looked down, and saw her bulging belly and his eyes widened.

"Oh my _God_," he said. "You're…"

She started to stand again, but this time Hannibal was quicker and gently pushed her back into her seat. She sighed and crossed her knees, which got an appreciative look from Face, in spite of his obvious shock.

"When are you due?" Colonel Smith asked her gently.

"Hey, that's a dangerous question to ask, man. I asked a girl that once and got hit with a _brick_," B.A. said. "You never ask a woman that question. Not even if the baby's actually comin' _out_ at the time."

"Around the end of April," Seaborn finally answered. "Due date is April the twenty-fourth, but…uh…"

"And Murdock is the father," Face said softly. At her slight nod, he sat down again, beside Smith, making a steeple with his hands and covering his nose, eyes wide with shock. "Wow…I mean…wow…well, it's not that much of a surprise, really. It'd been, what, five years since…"She glared briefly at Face, who had enough decency to look embarrassed. After a moment, however, he grinned and looked at Hannibal and B.A., who were both staring at Seaborn.

"But…?" Hannibal asked, looking at her, always the calm center of every storm.

"Listen, if either of you tell James about this, I will personally shoot you. Understood?"

"What is the 'but', though?" Face asked, catching on and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "What 'but'?"

She pinched her nose, between her eyes, and sighed. "I'm having twins."

That left them _all_ fumbuzzled, that was for sure. Face collapsed back against the wall, gasping, and Hannibal shook his head, as if to clear it, and pressed his fingers to the middle of his forehead. B.A. shook his head several times, and then he started _giggling_. She wasn't sure which man to smack first, actually. She figured Face would be easiest to drop, but then these guys were Rangers and knew how to fight. Not that they'd retaliate against a pregnant woman…

"Twins." Hannibal shook his head, amazed. "Well…way to go, James! I mean…well, he was always into speed, wasn't he?" A smile finally spread across his face.

She groaned. She knew for a fact that he was much more inclined to take his time - he hadn't minded waiting for her at all. She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling.

"Hey, is it safe for you to fly in your condition?" Face asked, genuinely concerned. "I mean…seriously. Those are Murdock's kids, and I'll be damned if anything happens to 'em…or hell, to their _Mommy_." He winked at her and Seaborn blushed.

"It is still safe for me to travel," she informed them all. "And since I'm still officially in charge of you all, I have to go with you."

"Stay away from those peanuts," B.A. said, and started giggling again.

"I already stay away from peanuts!" she snapped. "I eat one and I bloat like a friggin' whale!"

"So these kids were conceived while Murdock was…" Face raised his eyebrows. "…recovering from _knee_ surgery? Huh…I wonder how he swung that?" He sat back and grinned.

"Quite well," Seaborn answered, before she realized what she had said and realized what he was obviously thinking. "Oh, God…would you shut up, you nit?"

All three of the men were smirking, and suddenly Hannibal burst into laughter. "I'm gonna be a grandfather! Though frankly, I always figured you'd be the one who won the baby sweepstakes, Face, but…eh, Murdock always did surprise me."

"Excuse me, but this is not a _sweepstakes_," Seaborn said, irritated. "These are two _babies_. My babies…not some stupid 'I'm the man' competition." Still, she couldn't help but remember her lover's potency that night, and his _stamina_. Oh, hell, she remembered it all the time. It was why she was so often caught daydreaming at green lights, or was found staring off into space while in the checkout line, all dewy-eyed and bemused.

"Yes," Face nodded, looking contrite. "How do you intend to tell him? He gets off the plane from Mannheim and you drop this on him? All things considered, this'll be quite a shock to him. I mean…I'm going to guess that you two used protection, right?"

"Of course we did!" Seaborn snapped. "It just…didn't work."

"Shut up, Face. That's between Seaborn and Murdock. Seaborn, I apologize for our behavior," Hannibal told her, giving Face a shove. "If we're actually exonerated, we'll be happy to help you in any way we can."

"Weapons training, hand-to-hand fighting skills…" Face nodded.

"I'll teach 'em how to fix cars," B.A. volunteered.

"And Murdock will teach them how to fly," Hannibal said. "I"ll teach them…well, I'm sure I can teach them something. Leadership skills. Yes. Leadership skills…and how to make plans."

"And Murdock can also teach 'em to be crazy," B.A. said, rolling his eyes.

Seaborn shook her head. "If anyone is going to teach them to be crazy, I'm fairly sure I can do that just fine on my own. Gentlemen," she said, standing up, though more slowly now. "You will be informed as to when your flight leaves tomorrow. I will expect you all to be ready to go and in very cheerful moods, with your faces washed and your hair combed. Thank you."

They all stood up when she did, and she was startled to receive a triple salute. She saluted back, and wondered if the babies were saluting too.

* * *

"I have an appointment at four this afternoon," Seaborn told Charlotte, having changed into the embarrassing open-in-the-back paper gown. "I just hope this all goes smoothly."

"It usually does," Charlotte said with a smile. "Just lie back and relax. Your blood pressure is excellent, by the way. Any nosebleeds?"

"Not really." Seaborn had bought a copy of _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ and had been reading it every night before bed. At eighteen weeks now, she knew the babies were about seven inches long and looked like actual tiny baby humans, and she should be feeling them move by now. That in itself was a little alarming, because she didn't know what to expect in that regard. Would it be like that scene in _Alien_, or would it just feel like something rattling around in there?

"Any pains in your abdomen?" Charlotte asked. She was gently palpating Seaborn's belly.

"One this morning," Seaborn nodded. "It only lasted a few seconds."

"Very normal," the nurse smiled. "Thus far, this has been a very uneventful pregnancy. Have you felt them move yet?"

"No, not yet."

Charlotte nodded. "You'll feel them soon. Right now, they're starting to recognize each others' presence in there and are starting to move around. Perhaps even starting to squabble sometimes." She smiled, and Seaborn giggled in spite of her nervousness.

Dr Keller returned then, and began preparing for the amniocentesis. Seaborn closed her eyes when she saw the long needle, and took a deep breath. She had endured the pelvic exam quite well, but this whole thing looked scary. The doctor turned the machine on and spread the goop on her belly, and she tucked her arm under head again, taking slow, deep breaths.

"It's a long needle, but it's very, very thin. Just a little prick, once I find a safe place to probe…ah, there you are – found a nice little unoccupied spot. I'm only doing this, really, because your family history is sketchy, and so is the father's, right?"

She nodded.

"Right. Now, we've done the anesthetic already – just a bit of local, to prevent pain. Just close your eyes and it'll be over very soon. From the way everything is progressing, I only foresee a very uneventful gestation and two healthy babies making their debuts in about twenty more weeks…though I personally prefer to encourage an earlier delivery – by about a week or slightly more - in the case of multiples, just to prevent undue strain on all three of you. We just want to make sure they're both fully cooked before we really start _pushing_. And I kind of suspect you'll go into labor early on your own."

She felt only a tiny sting of pain, while Charlotte held her hand, and within just a few moments, it was over.

"Nice sample," Keller nodded, placing the syringe on a metal tray and gesturing for Charlotte to remove it. "We'll have the results in about a week." He continued running the transducer over her belly. "Want another picture of the kids?"

"Yes," Seaborn nodded. She could hear their hearts wooshing away, and her eyes filled with tears again. "I've already started a baby album…two baby albums, now."

"Good idea," Charlotte nodded.

"Now, we'll leave you alone to get dressed, and then we'll have a talk in my office and you'll be free to go."

* * *

Back in her black top and stretchy pants, Seaborn sat down in Keller's office and held her breath. "Well?" she finally asked.

"Yes, yes," Keller looked at the chart, nodding as he read. "You sure you want to know?"

"Yes, I do!" she said, growing impatient.

"Okay…well, first of all, you're having fraternal twins. Two eggs, two sperm."

"Oh…" Good God, James really was potent, she thought with an inward giggle.

"So basically, they probably won't look much alike at all."

"Okay…" Get on with it!

Keller's mouth twisted and he closed the file. "Seaborn, you're having a boy and a girl."

"Oh. Oh…wow." Kris is going to _flip_, she thought. "Wow…"

"Yeah. Feeling okay?"

"It's all just so…_enormous_. And I'm gonna be enormous soon. And then it's an enormous pile of diapers and baby clothes – lots of yellow, I guess – and just…wow…a son and a daughter."

"Yep. Have you told the father yet?"

"No…no, I haven't."

Keller studied her, and she could see all the questions running through his mind. But he didn't pry. Instead, he went over her dietary needs, the level of exercise she would need, and her travel limits. When she informed him that would be flying to D.C. the next day, he only raised an eyebrow.

"I have no reason to forbid you flying right now, but next month…_no planes_, no trains, only necessary driving, and frankly, considering your small build, I would also recommend you pretty much stick close to home once you enter the final trimester. As for the flight, be sure to get an aisle seat, so you can get up easily, and make sure it's near the bathroom. Also, I recommend you try to move around as much as you can, and to keep your feet elevated."

She nodded. "Aye, aye, sir."

* * *

Kris was absolutely elated, and wanted Seaborn to stay at the hospital to discuss all kinds of upcoming details - including a baby shower - but the Marshal had another appointment and couldn't hang around. She headed across Long Beach to the criminal holding facility and wasn't surprised at all to see Charissa standing outside the doors, tapping her feet and looking impatient. When Sosa saw her, however, her impatience evaporated and she peered at Seaborn with wide eyes.

"Oh my God…I take it you haven't been binging on pizzas and Tex-Mex."

"Oh, God, don't even say the word 'pepperoni' around me. I'll explode."

Charissa surprised Seaborn by giving her a hug, and bursting into laughter. "Oh my God! You're _pregnant_!"

"Yes," she nodded. "Eighteen weeks." Suddenly excited, she scrabbled in her purse and found the latest photo of the two babies. "Look! It's a boy and a girl…see?" She pointed at the one labeled 'Baby A' and smiled. "Boy. Baby B – girl. I'm actually already thinking of names starting with A and B."

"Well, talk about your interesting developments. Does…he know?" she asked, gesturing eastward, towards Germany, and Seaborn shook her head.

"Not yet. I can't seem to get in contact with him anyway. He's forbidden visitors, or mail, or anything."

Charissa frowned at her. "Well. We'll just see about that. But we have this business to take care of. Are you ready?"

"I'll just be glad when it's over," she said.

* * *

"Mr Murdock, your little rebellion yesterday was _quite_ unacceptable," Dr Weintraub was saying, but Murdock wasn't paying attention to him. He was listening to the sound of a chopper flying overhead, toward the base. Osprey, he thought with a little smile. Tilt-rotors in excellent condition, too. God, he missed flying. He wondered if he would be at all rusty…

"Mr Murdock, are you listening to me?" Weintraub finally shouted, losing control of his temper.

"Hm? Oh, sorry. You were saying?"

"The Jello thing…"

"I hate green Jello. Why y'all can't get that through your heads is beyond me. I mean, this is _Germany_, for God's sake. You'd think y'all could get the details right, eh? _Die Teufel ist am einzelheiten_, y'know. Dja know my grandmother's parents were German and Irish? She was a very neat drunk." _Rimshot_.

"That is not amusing, Mr Murdock," Weintraub hissed.

"It's not? Well, hell, I had the timing perfect. But then again, I don't recall hearing much about German humor. I mean, I learned a lot of bar-room floor German and Spanish from a woman who used to work for a nice Dusseldorf family that fled to Nicaragua…after the war…oh, wait...don't talk about the war!" Murdock sat up straight in his chair and decided he'd go full force at sending this putz over the edge. "But that woman…no sense of humor, even though she was actually from Nicaragua and spoke perfect Spanish _and_ idiotmatic Miskito…"

"Mr Murdock…"

"Captain. I am a _Captain_ in the United States Army. The same Army that soundly thrashed yours in the war. Oh, sorry…shouldn't talk about the war!" Murdock smiled a little, sitting back and crossing his knees, preparing himself for the first bit of real fun since he'd made love to Seaborn. Not that any fun he'd ever have again would compare to _that_, but he had to take whatever he could get nowadays.

"Mr Murdock, I want you to explain why you would do such a thing. Attempting to staple Jello to a wall is not only a practice in futility, but also very messy, and when you and the other patients started throwing that stuff, it caused several of the orderlies to slip and fall down. One of them has a broken elbow…" Weintraub was struggling to pull himself back together.

"Well, then, he should be more careful…and as for the stapling of Jello to walls…ever heard of the term 'making a point'? Anyway…care must be taken…must be taken, and all orders must be obeyed!" He stood, clicked his heels together – or they would have clicked, if he had been wearing shoes instead of slippers – and saluted, though he just couldn't do the Roman salute in good conscience. "All orders must be followed to ze letter, without question, Commandant!" he shouted. Weintraub shot to his feet again, eyes bulging.

"Stop that, Mr Murdock! Sit down!"

Murdock sat and began stroking an invisible dog, to his right. "Hey, Billy, I'm gettin' through this conversation pretty well so far, ain't I? I haven't even mentioned the war!" He wished he could do a proper goosestep across the room, but his knee was still kind of iffy, what with having not had any of the physical therapy the Army had _ordered_ he continue to receive.

"Stop talking about the war!" Weintraub shouted.

"What war?" Murdock asked, blinking innocently and continuing to stroke Billy's ears.

"_The war_!" Weintraub shrieked, his voice going up an octave.

"Well, you started it!" Murdock snapped back, becoming annoyed, cuddling Billy against him.

"I did not start it!" Weintraub screamed. Murdock could hear footsteps coming down the hall.

"Yes you did! You invaded Poland!"

Nurse Nance rushed into the room then, looking alarmed. "Dr Weintraub, is everything ok-…oh." Murdock was sitting in his seat, looking as innocent as a dove and as cunning as a viper. Weintraub was seething, his already bulging eyes almost ready to pop out of their sockets. The man rarely got this angry at anybody. Only Captain Murdock could send somebody to such utter distraction.

"Take this lunatic away!" Weintraub finally hissed. "Take him away. To his room. Immediately! You are on twenty-four hour lockdown!"

"Hey, I did real well, Nurse Nance," Murdock told her cheerfully. He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "I didn't even mention the war!" He glanced back at Weintraub, who looked twice as crazy now as he had ever even felt. He grinned and saluted again, clicking his heels together, and let Edith lead him from the room.

Out in the hall, she glanced up at him and struggled to beat away a smile. "I can't believe you did that," she said, shaking her head.

"I always loved _Fawlty Towers_. It lends itself to performance in a mental hospital, doesn't it?"

"You'll get yourself in trouble," she told him firmly, but gently. "Go on to your room and try to rest. You're limping."

"Oh…yeah." He looked down, and put a little weight on his right leg. His knee was hurting a little. Not a lot, but it wasn't comfortable. "But it's not hot, and it's not swollen. Just…painin' me a little."

"Are you taking your meds?" she asked. "Not just your regular meds, but the painkillers and anti-inflammatories as well?"

"Er…yeah."

"Captain…" she said warningly. "You promised me you would behave. I had Dr Gottlieb change those meds for you, didn't I? It's required quite a lot of maneuvering to make sure Weintraub hasn't noticed anything different, but I really don't want to lose my job."

Murdock sighed and nodded. "I'll behave, from now on. I promise."

"Good. Now get in there and get some rest," she said, opening the door to his room and pushing it open.

He gave her that crooked little grin of his that had far more effect on the opposite sex than he actually realized, and she blushed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be a little angel, from now on."

"I don't think that's entirely possible, Captain, but I know you'll try," she laughed.

* * *

Seaborn and Charissa sat down together in the little interrogation room, having put themselves into solidly professional mode, even though five minutes ago Charissa had been quizzing her about her pregnancy and how did it all feel and was there anything she could do to help out, and so on. Seaborn was reading the files over, and tapped her finger on one word on the paper, which Charissa glanced at and nodded.

Vance Burress was finally led into the room, hands and ankles shackled. When he saw the two women, he grinned. "Well…another conjugal visit!"

"Mr Burress, when we're finished with you, the last thing you'll be able to do is anything remotely _conjugal_," Charissa said with a sweet smile. "Please, sit down." She gestured toward the chair opposite them and he sat down, the huge guard standing directly behind him.

"Mr Burress, you're being very uncooperative with DCIS and with the Federal Marshals with regard to their investigation," Seaborn said, leaning forward, briefly touching her belly.

"I have no reason to cooperate," he answered with a smug little smile. "You have no physical evidence against me."

"Hm. No physical evidence. I will admit, there is none. The plates are back where they belong, and there's no fingerprints on any of them, aside from Brock Pike's and General Morrison's, of course. Your direct involvement remains unsubstantiated," Charissa nodded and glanced at Seaborn.

"However, regardless of the lack of solid evidence against you, it is now considered out of the question that the CIA will release you, under any circumstances. Unless, of course, they agreed to turn you over to certain interested parties." She touched her belly again, feeling a strange little flutter in there.

"Oh yeah? What parties?" Burress asked, glaring at her. "Hey, you look different, sweetheart…"

Seaborn leaned forward. "I am not your sweetheart, Mr Burress. And there are certain parties in Budapest who would really love to speak with you."

Burress's reaction was spectacular. He paled and looked at both women, eyes widening. He swallowed and licked his lips nervously. "Buda…pest?"

"Yes. Capital of Hungary. Beautiful bridges, very historic. A really very romantic city, from what I've heard," Charissa said. "But there's also some people there who you managed to…shall we say, _offend_ a few years ago, and those people will be delighted to take over your health and welfare should the CIA grow weary of dealing with you."

He gulped.

"You could, of course, avoid going to Hungary by simply accommodating all of us and writing out a nice little confession about your complicity in the theft of those plates and the framing of four innocent Army Rangers." Seaborn took a sheet of paper out of her folder and slid it across the table to Burress, who stared down at it, blinking.

He kept licking his lips, and they could both feel the vibration of his knee bouncing faster and faster under the table.

"You can't send…send me to Hungary…"

"Wanna bet?" Seaborn leaned forward, and again felt the fluttering in her belly. That's not butterflies, she thought.

"If you continue to…_importune_ the CIA, DCIS and the Marshals by being so difficult, Mr Burress, the CIA will definitely send you to Hungary. A simple confession and it's just life in a maximum security prison, with no chance of parole."

"For what? For stealing some Goddamn plates?" Burress snarled, and paled when he realized what he had just said.

"And for murdering General Morrison, plus a number of other federal crimes. The CIA can put you anywhere they want, and you know it."

"Shouldn't they be chasing the A-Team?" he snapped, his control slipping.

"They have more important things to do," Charissa told him with a little smile. "And they want this little matter cleared up as soon as possible. So do DCIS and the Federal Marshals office. Simply write out your confession, and you'll be nice and safe, behind bars, where no one – not even the A-Team – can get to you. I suspect you're more afraid of them, actually, than you are of some pissed-off Hungarians, hm?"

Burress was breathing heavily now, and Seaborn could see the fear – or actually, the terror - in his eyes. Obviously, whatever mysterious actions he had taken in Hungary (Agent Lynch had been vague about the entire issue) had been pretty heinous, because he kept looking down at the paper and licking his lips, thinking about what could be waiting for him across the Atlantic, or if the A-Team got hold of him.

"Would you like a pen, Mr Burress?" Seaborn asked, pulling one out of her pocket and sliding it across the table to him.

He stared at the pen and then at the paper. The two women waited, with Seaborn touching her belly again and feeling the little flutters and _pings_ against her fingers. They were kicking! She could feel them kicking! Charissa looked at her briefly before turning her gaze back to Burress, who finally snatched up the pen.

"Maximum security prision…right?" he said, his voice shaking.

"The very max," Seaborn said, nodding.

The disgraced CIA agent rubbed his face and finally started writing. He had played his hand, and he had finally lost.

* * *

Edith had look almost straight up, from her seated position, to see the man's face. He was leaning forward just a bit, looking down at her, expression inscrutable.

"Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm looking for a Captain James Murdock."

"He's…um…wait. He's not allowed visitors."

The man was wearing a black suit coat, black pants and a crisp white shirt, and it didn't take Edith long to recognize _that_ outfit. She swallowed nervously, and he gave her a cool little smile.

"I'm sure that an exception can be made, ma'am. What room is he in?"

"Um…"

Dr Weintraub came around the corner then, looking displeased, as usual. When he spotted the tall man at the desk, he rounded on him. "What do you want, sir?"

"I'm here to see Captain Murdock."

"He is not allowed visitors."

"Yes he is," the man said, nodding.

"Did you not hear me?" Weintraub snapped. "Captain Murdock is currently in lockdown. He is not permitted…"

"Dr Weintraub, do you really want to irritate me? People don't do that often – it ends up getting kind of unpleasant for them and kind of messy to clean up later. So I will ask again, where is Captain Murdock?"

The doctor frowned and glanced down the hallway, toward the pilot's room. "Who are you?" he finally asked again.

"Does it matter?" The man smiled warmly. "Is the room this way?"

"Yes…"

"What number?"

"Two-oh-four," Edith said, ignoring Weintraub's sharp look.

"Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your assistance a great deal. Nurse, would you please unlock the room for me?"

Edith, trembling fearfully, followed the tall man down the hall, feeling powerless to do anything to help the poor pilot. What could she do? Call the MP's? The police? She wasn't stupid – this man was _clearly_ CIA and he had Captain Murdock in his sights, for whatever reason, and she could do nothing at all to help him.

With shaking hands, she extracted the key and unlocked the door. The tall man entered the room and she saw Murdock sitting on his bed, long legs stretched out, reading a comic book. He looked up at the CIA agent, brow furrowing briefly, and put the comic book down.

"Heya, Lynchy. Long time no see, bud." He swung his feet out of the bed and stuffed them into his slippers.

"James. It's good to see you, too. Ready to go?"

"Sure! Can I fly?"

Agent Lynch grinned. "Legally, no. Not right now, James. But I can say with almost complete assurance that in five months' time, you'll be back in the sky again." He turned around to face Edith and Dr Weintraub, who were both so stunned they couldn't speak. He looked at Weintraub, eyes narrowing. "Dr Weintraub, I'd sure like to know why Captain Murdock is so thin, and also why he has those burn-marks on his temples."

"Whatever you do, Lynchy, _don't talk about the war_!" Murdock stage-whispered from behind his back.

Weintraub flinched and started to speak, but Lynch raised his hand, looking back at the pilot, who was supporting himself on his cane but looking otherwise cheerful. His hair was messy, his stubble was almost at the point of being a full beard – not a very good look for him – and he was pale, but his smile was genuine.

"I'm sure the Army will be interested in doing a nice, thorough investigation into the reports of patient abuse in this facility, Doctor," he said with that same cool smile. Nurse Nance, thank you for your assistance. Captain, are you ready?"

"I sure am. My socks don't match and Billy's got eczema, but hell, what else is new? Come on, man! Let's _go_!" He hobbled out of the room and started to leave, but he paused to look at Edith, then at Weintraub.

"Hey, thanks, ma'am," he said. She blushed and giggled in spite of herself when he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He straightened and regarded Dr Weintraub for a moment, thinking it over, but finally just shrugged and allowed Lynch to lead him away. At the doors, he gave Edith a friendly wave goodbye and did his best to try to run toward the agent's waiting car, but was slowed down and obeyed the quiet order to just walk.

The nurse glanced at Dr Weintraub, and finally decided that if she got fired, so be it. She hauled back and decked the son of a bitch in the eye. He yelped with pain and dropped to the floor, and she nodded, straightening her scrub top, before walking back to her place at the desk and sitting down. When Howie shuffled by, she gave him a warm smile and asked him if he'd like to play backwards chess again.


	25. Spook Mousse

This chapter may or may not need a higher rating. No need for graphic language or exact placings of…er…_parts_. But the show's not over yet! Certain plans must be made!

(And I still write love scene with my hands over my eyes. Just…eh…there's nothing new under the sun, is there? Though you might not want to ask poor B.A. that question…)

* * *

Lynch snickered as he watched Murdock flinch away from the hulking physical therapist, who was perhaps pushing the poor guy's leg just a _little_ too hard – the pilot was showing definite signs of strain. Probably didn't know his own strength, Lynch decided, but the guy had come highly recommended by that Russian woman back in L.A. He made a 'timeout' gesture with his hands and Murdock gasped, relieved to finally be lying still again. He was shaking his head, mumbling in what sounded a little bit like Swahili.

"That's enough for now, Igor. You can go now."

The physical therapist nodded and gathered up his exercise mat and weights. Once he was gone, Murdock finally sat up. Lynch helped him to his feet and he staggered over to the bench in the little exercise room, sitting down and stretching his leg out. "Sure as God made little green apples, that man's gonna kill me dead."

"Ah, you'll be fine," Lynch shook his head. "And I know you want to be in tip-top shape before the retrial."

"Well, yeah…" Murdock rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. "I'd much rather walk in there under my own power, anyhow."

"You will. Hey, listen, why don't we go get some lunch? Want the wheelchair?" Lynch grinned wickedly, knowing how he would respond to that, and Murdock didn't disappoint him.

"Oh, you're just a friggin' comedian, aren't you?" he growled. "And yes, I'm hungry. I want…pizza. It's weird, actually…I have these bizarre cravings sometimes, and stomach cramps."

"Cravings?"

"Yeah. Pickles and honey, and peanut butter 'n' onions."

Lynch stared at him, remembering his old friend's strange notions about flavor combinations, but that sounded a little beyond the pale, even for Murdock.

"I'm not putting anything like that on a pizza, James. No way."

"Geesh…save a guy's life, and he still won't eat your cookin' or let him pick the pizza toppings."

Lynch got up and gave the pilot his hand, pulling him to his feet. "Yes, and I would think that as you saved my life, you wouldn't actually set out to end it. What was that stuff you cooked, in Mogadishu?"

"Jerked goat in special sauce. Damn…there it is again," Murdock said, touching his stomach. "Cramps. Really hurts sometimes, too. And I feel nauseated a lot, too. And I've got heartburn." He winced again and made a face.

"Maybe you should get it checked out," Lynch suggested. "Though it's probably just nerves."

"Nerves? I don't have any _nerves_…"

* * *

Seaborn had taken a seat next to Peck, as it was in the front row and she had plenty of legroom. The lieutenant was extremely solicitous, finally demanding that a footstool be found for her, and that a pillow be found for her back (which wasn't hurting, but an extra pillow was nice anyway) and he kept asking her if she needed anything.

"I'm pregnant, not an invalid, Lieutenant," she said at last, relaxing. She felt the babies kicking again – two bumps on the right, another bump on the left – and smiled.

"Are they…you feel them moving?" he asked her, eyes wide. She had finally caved in and showed them the ultrasound photos, and all three men had actually gotten a little misty-eyed and had passed the picture around on the plane during the pre-flight. They had all turned to stare at her belly and murmur amongst themselves, and she had heard Hannibal whisper 'very small'. As if she didn't realize that giving birth to two babies at once was going to be rather _unpleasant_.

"Yes."

"Can I touch?" he asked her eagerly.

"No."

He looked affronted. "I'm not gonna cop a feel, _Seaborn_," he said grumpily.

"The only member of your team that will be touching my stomach will be the father of these babies. Period."

"Hannibal! She's not being fair!" Face bleated, twisting around to look back at his CO. "She won't let me touch her tummy!"

"Shuddup already. Those are James's kids, not yours," Hannibal said from the seat behind him, not even lifting his head from the magazine article he was reading about, on livestock breeding. "Read something. I'm finding sheep extremely engrossing. But you do have that _glow_ about you, Seaborn."

"Oh…thank you," she said, blushing.

"Not just a pregnancy glow, either," Face acknowledged. "You glow like a woman in love."

She turned even pinker then and took a sip of water. She finally extracted a crossword puzzle book from her bag and handed it to Peck, along with a pencil. He frowned at the puzzles and finally settled in. "You know, those kids…they'll have red hair and green eyes and sharp minds," he told her, not wanting to further embarrass her. "Be ready for an adventure, for the next eighteen years."

She laughed, softly, and shrugged. "I've already got images of them in my head, actually. The boy is tall and lean, with _dark_ hair and green eyes, and he's so smart its scary to talk to him, because he remembers _everything_ and picks up languages right and left…"

"And the girl?" Face asked, grinning, forming a picture of his own in his head. She'd be _hot_, that was for sure. Enough so that Murdock would probably threaten to kill him if he even looked at her.

"Red hair, green eyes…taller than me, I suspect. Very slim…"

"Fiesty," Face grinned. "Hot-tempered, prickly…and spoiled rotten by her father."

"You think James would spoil his kids?" she asked, lifting her head off the pillow and looking directly at Peck.

"The girl in particular," he nodded. "He'll be overprotective, that's for sure. I can see him sitting on the couch, cleaning his rifle, whenever the boys come around – and believe me, they'll be coming around in droves. Truckloads of 'em, and every time they knock on the door and say, 'Hi, Captain Murdock, I'm here to take your daughter out', he will _hear_ 'Hi, Captain Murdock, I'm here to have sex with your daughter', and let's just say you'd better have some tranqs and a First Aid kit on hand, 'cause things could get ugly."

Seaborn giggled, covering her face with her hand.

"He'll teach the boy to fly and will encourage him to join the Army, but he'll probably become a lawyer or something. That's how it always works out, anyway. And believe me, the girls will be buzzing around him, too."

"Hm. Well, I suspect I could still teach them marksmanship. I'm better at that than James, anyway."

* * *

It almost dark when the plane touched ground, and then it was a lengthy wait to be cleared to disembark. Seaborn's three prisoners were actually quite jovial when they climbed down the stairs and stood on the tarmac, being patted down carefully by four burly US Marshals. Seaborn was worn out by the time they finally got inside, and she was grateful to finally sit down and rest while other Marshals dithered over documentation. The prisoners were all draped over chairs, snoring away, exhausted from the long flight and having to behave so well.

She was just starting to doze off when she felt someone shaking her shoulder. "Miss Buchanan?"

Opening her eyes slowly, she was not a little startled to see Agent Lynch standing there, looking amused. She got to her feet, relieved to not feel any dizziness, and smiled politely at the CIA operative.

"Good to see you, Miss Buchanan," he said, and tilted to the side just a little. His eyes widened just a smidgen and she raised her eyebrow. "Or…both of you."

"All three of us," she nodded.

His eyes widened more than just a smidgen then. "I'm here to take the A-Team off your hands, ma'am."

"What?" She glanced over at the little clot of Marshals still standing around, looking only mildly put out but mainly eager to just get back on the plane and go home.

"Don't worry. They're to be held in a secret location and will be treated with the utmost courtesy until the trial, which is scheduled for April the twenty-fourth, by the way."

She frowned. Her due date. "And…and…Captain Murdock…?"

"He's already there."

Her heart started pounding. "Really? I…I mean…really…well, good."

"He's resumed physical therapy already, but had taken care of much of that on his own while in Germany. I'm afraid he lost a good deal of weight over there, and I don't think he was treated extremely well, but after less than a day, he's showing signs of improvement."

"Is he all right?" she finally asked, wringing her hands. "I mean…I mean…otherwise…"

"He's clean-shaven…eating almost nonstop, getting his color back, and the light is back in his eyes again, I'm pleased to report. Do you want to see him?" he asked her.

She touched her belly. "I can't say that he's quite ready to see me just yet."

Lynch's eyebrow lifted, again just a smidgen. He tilted again, frowned, and finally nodded. "I see. Well. When is your flight back home?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock."

He nodded and handed her a piece of paper. "If you change your mind, the men are at this address, which I'm sure you'll forget as soon as the plane lifts off the ground tomorrow. And again, I can assure you, he and the rest of the A-Team will be treated very well. At _my_ orders."

* * *

Hannibal snatched Murdock into a grip that nearly suffocated the pilot, and once he was released, it was B.A. lifting him off his feet and hugging him so fiercely he could have sworn he felt a rib crack. Then, while he was still reeling from overly affectionate greetings, Face grabbed him and it all started again. B.A. pretended he was bleary-eyed because of some unknown Chesapeake Bay allergen. Hannibal snuffled and kept smacking him on the back and ruffling his hair, and Face wouldn't let go of him. He finally just had to duck out of his friend's embrace and limp over to the dining room table, where he sat down in a disturbingly luxurious chair.

"Okay, okay…let's all take a deep breath."

Face sat down opposite him at the table and leaned forward, hands folded on the table. He finally looked at Hannibal, who took a side to Murdock's left, and B.A. sat down at his left.

"So…how're the Astros doin' this season?"

"Very funny," Face said, grinning.

"I'm hungry," Murdock said. "It's weird…past coupla weeks, I've been really, really hungry, but at first, I never could seem to gain weight. Now, I eat constantly and yet I've got stomach cramps and nausea and…what?" He noted that they were all staring at each other. Hannibal looked strangest – if Murdock hadn't known any better, he would have thought the man was about to start crying. "What the hell is wrong with y'all?"

"Just…uh…we're all just so happy to see you again, son," Hannibal said.

Murdock blinked, knowing that was true enough, but this was weird. They were all sitting there, blinking and sniffling, as if they had just seen _Steel Magnolias_. "Well…anybody need some hormone pills or somethin'?"

B.A. started to say something, but a warning look from Hannibal made him clap his mouth shut and look down.

"Something's wrong. Right? Is something wrong? Lynch told me that the trial was just a…a…blip. A formality, and I have a tendency to take his word for stuff like that, and then we'll be free…but something's wrong? What is it? Somebody tell me, so I can become hysterical, cry for two hours and eat an entire cheesecake!"

"It's nothing like that. But…you say you're having…cramps?" Face asked, brow furrowing.

"Yeah. Cramps. And cravings…I mean, weird stuff. Weird even for me, that is. Like, right now, I really want jelly donuts. I was kind of like when I tried to do a hunger strike, back when I was at a VA in…someplace…and all I could think about was cheeseburgers. I was seein' cheeseburgers everywhere. Even the nurses looked like cheeseburgers, which frankly was an improvement on most of them, and frankly I had a hard time imaginin' Bill Clinton puttin' down a slut and saying 'We really need to investigate patient abuse in VA hospitals, because a nutjob in Alabama is starving to death and screaming for cheeseburgers!' But lately, I've just been eating and eating…anything I could get my hands on, 'cept the green Jello, which I just hate and stapled to the walls. I've gained six pounds in the past two weeks, which is a _lot_ for me, lemme tell ya…"

"Cramps, huh?" Face said, sitting back and looking at Hannibal, who could only shrug. Murdock was frequently this verbose, and they just had to wait it out. Listen, parse out the important stuff and ask the right questions. He'd get there eventually.

"Yeah, painful cramps. And I've got headaches and palpitations and heartburn and nausea like nothin' you'd believe. And I'm anxious all the time."

"More anxious than…normal?" B.A. asked, looking confused. Again Hannibal gave him a look that told him to be quiet.

"Oh, hell, what's normal for me?" Murdock threw his hands up. "I don't even think I can remember 'normal'. Or if there was ever a 'normal'. Or does normal even exist? What is normal?" He frowned. "And sometimes I just can't seem to stop talking. I do that when I'm anxious. Or I fall asleep. I did that once, in a refrigerator. I mean, I was lookin' in the fridge and I was talking about somethin' that was really botherin' me and I just zonked out. Ended up with half-frozen ears and a numb forehead…"

"Murdock!" Face finally said, making an exasperated karate-chop motion. "Wait a minute…you're…uh…having cramps and cravings and…uh…all this stuff…geez, you'd think you were…like…er…_pregnant_ or something." The conman yelped and bent down to rub his shin, which had been kicked by Hannibal.

"Pregnant?" Murdock squeaked, startled. "Hey, listen, I may be crazy an' ever'thing, but I know a guy can't get _pregnant_. It wasn't just the _American Journal of Abnormal Psychology_ that I've read. I've also read biology textbooks, too, and passed Sex Ed in high school."

"Yeah, but a man can definitely get somebody el-…yeeeouch!" Tears filled B.A.'s eyes and he reached under the table to rub his ankle, giving Hannibal a cold glare. "Damn…"

Murdock got up and shuffled over to the French doors looking out over the gardens, and tapped twice on the glass. A man in a black suit appeared immediately. "Hey, go get me some jelly donuts," he said through the panes. "Raspberry, preferably. Hey, y'all want any jelly donuts? I'll order a bunch of 'em!"

"Uh…" Face scratched the back of his head. Murdock was a smart guy about just about _everything_, but clearly this was a subject he needed a bit of schooling about. "No thanks."

"I'll take some!" B.A. said eagerly. Hannibal covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking.

"Two dozen…make that three dozen raspberry jelly donuts!"

"Make some of 'em chocolate-cream filled," B.A. said. "And Bavarian cream, too."

"Yes…three dozen! Four dozen, actually. A dozen raspberry, a dozen chocolate, a dozen Bavarian cream, and a dozen…anybody?" He looked back at the others, who all shrugged, Hannibal still shaking. "Lemon cream! And swing by and get us some ice cream, on the way back."

The spook at the door was scribbling away at a notebook, and he finally looked up. "Anything else?" he yelled through the glass.

"Some antifreeze!" Murdock grinned. "Please."

* * *

Seaborn sat in her hotel room, wringing her hands and staring at the phone. All she had to do was make one call and she would finally see James – Lynch had offered to drive her if she decided to go. She would be able to just _tell_ him, and his reaction would determine her future. She couldn't imagine him rejecting his _children_, but he might be angry enough at her to end whatever had ever existed between them. He might not appreciate having been kept in the dark for so long. He might even view this pregnancy as a means of entrapment.

Oh, but how she wanted to see him, particularly when she was still in a condition that he wouldn't immediately note, so long as she stayed in front of him. If she could just tell him before he noticed, maybe that would soften the shock a little and give him a little time to adjust. Yes. She nodded, snatched up the phone, and dialed the number Lynch had given her. Either way, James was just going to have to adjust.

* * *

It was getting late, and Murdock was bored. He didn't feel like sleeping, particularly since his cravings had started up again and all he could think about was bananas. He dug around in the cabinets for anything banana-flavored, and finally found a little jar of Runts. He dug out the banana candies and gobbled them, then got out a few of the leftover jelly donuts and limped into the living room. He sat down on the couch, switched on the TV and sat back, eating and letting his mind drift back to Seaborn again.

It wasn't as though he didn't think about her every damned day of the week. And lately, he hadn't just been experiencing cramps and cravings – he was also _horny_. That disturbed him, because his entire life he had always tried to be a gentleman and not cop feels or grope. Then again, it wasn't other women he was thinking about groping and feeling up – it was Seaborn. _Only_ Seaborn, for the past three years. It seemed like every other women he had ever been with, dated or just thought about had been erased from his mind for good and replaced entirely with her, and no other woman he had met interested him even vaguely.

He remembered the way she felt beneath him, and her touch and her amateurish but mind-blowing caresses…and her kiss. He closed his eyes, grabbed another jelly donut and tried to beat down _that_ craving with food. God, her skin had felt like silk, and those little cries she made in the back of her throat when she…

He rubbed his forehead and sighed, staring at the ceiling. Nights were the worst for him, now. Generally, he was master of his domain, so to speak, but he was also only human and since there was no one else around…

Damn.

He sat up sharply and grabbed another donut. He searched the TV for something unarousing to watch, and finally came across a National Geographic special on squids. It was either that or David Letterman, who annoyed the hell out of him. He put his feet on the coffee table, stretched out, and knew that a cold shower was in the offing tonight.

He was dozing off, smelling her perfume and feeling her fingertips against his jaw, when the sound of knocking brought him to his feet, alarmed. He looked at the clock and his brow furrowed – who would be coming here so late at night? He decided it must be Lynch, and grabbed his cane, so he could beat the jerk for waking him from _that_ particular dream. He knew the others were upstairs, sleeping in comfortable beds and unlikely to wake up until some time around noon tomorrow, considering the donut consumption that had gone on earlier.

The house Lynch had obtained for them was CIA-owned and quite large and comfortable, with every kind of amenity, besides a detail of spooks on watch twenty-four/seven. It came with a cavernous kitchen, a master dining room that was right out of _Veranda_ magazine and a living room that consisted of huge, overstuffed couches and a gigantic flat-screen TV. Upstairs were four enormous bedrooms with king-size beds and jet showers with knobs and buttons that made Murdock nervous. The only thing he didn't like about the house was the hardwood floors, on which his cane made a lot of noise. It was particularly noisy tonight as he thumped down the long hallway to the door.

Murdock opened the door cautiously, and his knees buckled, making him lean on his cane to keep from falling on his face.

"Hi," Seaborn said softly.

He blinked, unable to believe she was standing there, wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black miniskirt, looking so beautiful he nearly dropped to his knees to worship her.

"Can I come in?" she asked him.

"Uh…yes…of…of course…"

He found it odd that she scooted in, her back to the wall, and circled around him, still facing him when she stood under the chandelier in the foyer. He spun slowly on his good foot and studied her, bewildered, wondering if he was just dreaming. If so, it was a damned good dream so far. She looked…different. Beautiful and sexy, but still different.

"How are you?" she asked him.

"I'm…good. Uh…c-come on in the…uh…living room…want a…uh…donut?"

"Oh, yes. I'd love one." She turned then, and he saw her bulging belly, and Murdock's knees buckled again. "What? What? Are you…oh…" She touched her stomach. "I guess you saw."

"You're…"

She nodded. "Yes." Her expression was wary, and she stood absolutely still.

"Pregnant…"

"Yes." Seaborn drew in her breath. "I wanted to tell you sooner. I really did…but…you were in Germany and no one could contact you…"

"I know."

A tense silence fell between them, as he stood staring at her, wide-eyed, unable to move a muscle.

"Are…are you angry?" she asked him at last.

"Angry?" he gasped.

"I mean, I know this is a pretty big deal…it's…"

"Why would I be…angry? I don't…" He shook his head.

"The condoms…I guess they didn't…"

"I'm not angry. I'm…surprised…not angry." Surprised. Thrilled. Terrified. Excited. Horny…damn…

She exhaled, closing her eyes. "I've missed you, James," she finally whispered.

"I've missed you, too." That was the first thought that he was able latch on to. How much he had missed her. Just one night in her arms, and he was already spoiled for her. Before arriving in Long Beach, in the three years between Tomahawk and seeing her again, a few women had made themselves _available_ to Murdock, but not one of them had interested in him. It was her or nobody.

They both flinched when they heard a noise, and they looked up to see Hannibal at the top of the stairs. The Colonel continued on past, oblivious to them in his quest to find the bathroom in the dark. They heard a dull _thud_, followed by an 'ouch!' and some muttering, and finally a door banged shut.

She stepped forward. "James, there's more."

He blinked. "More?"

"Yes," she nodded, taking a deep breath. "I'm having twins."

"Oh…that's…I'm…" He staggered a bit. "_Twins_?"

"A boy and a girl."

"Right…" He rubbed his face and finally ran a hand through his hair. "Twins run in my family. My…my father was a twin. But his brother died of heatstroke when he was ten…"

"Oh." She nodded, looking up into his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm…okay. What…what do you want to do…?" he asked cautiously. "I'll…do…whatever you…ask…"

"Um…well…" She swallowed and chewed on her lip for a second, which immediately had his rapt attention. "We should…uh…talk over a few things and…and there's a few things I really need to say to you."

"Oh." He looked down, a thousand things running through his mind like zanies and bumping into each other. The first thing – the one that terrified him – was that she didn't want him involved in the babies' lives and that she never wanted to see him again, and that this visit was just out of courtesy: she would give him an address to where he should send the checks and to please leave her life forever. He would accept that, because it wasn't as though he had much choice in the matter, and besides, he was no prize to begin with. But it would likely just kill him. He would shrivel up and die of a broken heart…

"Right. Well, first of all, I'm due in the last couple of weeks in April. My doctor figures I'll go into labor around April the fifteenth or so, but the trial is also scheduled for April the twenty-fourth, which is actually my exact due date. I really wish you could be there for the delivery, but I kind of doubt the military will let you, but then again, there's also Agent Lynch, who seems capable of moving the odd mountain if he needs to…"

"Lynch knew about this first?" he said, astonished.

"Yes, I'm sorry. It was kind of inevitable. I mean…I mean, people see me from the front and then they start tilting to the side and see the bulge…and I'm so sorry, James, but Hannibal and Face and B.A. know, too. I would have rather you knew first, but…" She shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry. You should have been the first to know. But I was throwing up all the time and crying constantly and…frankly, I'm not sure you would have enjoyed being around me at the time."

"It's…okay...I would have loved every minute..." he said, rubbing his forehead. "I need to sit down."

"Yes, I know this is a pretty big shock," she agreed.

"No, my knee hurts. A little." He snatched up the cane and limped down the hall and back to the living room. Seaborn followed him, and stood for a moment, uncertain of where to sit. He flopped onto the couch, and she could see he was regaining his wits – and his sense of mischief. Finally, nervously, she moved around the couch, and he patted the cushion next to him. "Sit, Ubu, sit."

She finally sat down, primly smoothing her black skirt and finally crossing her knees. "Excuse me, Ubu was a _dog_."

"You are not a dog. You are a serious hottie. A red hot mama."

"I'm getting fat, and I have cravings. Major cravings. Where's that donut, by the way?"

"Oh…right…donut." He snagged the plate from the table by the couch and presented her with a choice of raspberry and chocolate cream-filled jelly donuts. She picked chocolate and took a bite, sighing happily. "I was so sure you'd be angry."

"Why would I be angry? I don't get that."

"I just…I don't know…figured you would be upset. We used protection, after all, and…well, that's another thing. I'm the one who bought the condoms and…"

"Yeah, you did, didn't you, you naughty wench. A whole _box_ of them, too. One of 'em must've been defective."

"Or just…broke. I bought the extra large size, but…"

He started snickering. "I remember that. I remember thinking, 'Wow, she has a high opinion of me!'"

She giggled. "I just figured you'd be…I mean…come on, James, I was a complete _naïf_. And frankly, I'm glad I did buy the…um…_large_ ones, 'cause you're hardly small." She was turning pink, which shouldn't have turned him on, but it did. He swallowed and looked at the TV. A squid was killing some small, defenseless sea creature. He turned the TV off.

"Very true." He nodded, and she caught his smug little wink. "But you're…uh…not a _naïf_ any more, huh?"

"Hardly."

"And…uh…" He just couldn't seem to stop himself – he finally reached over and touched her cheek, turning her head slightly. She didn't resist him, though, which was another surprise, but instead moved eagerly toward him. He kissed her, long and deep and grateful, and her hands moved to his shoulders and finally around his neck and he started moving her onto her back, positioning himself over her and finally moving into that age-old position – the one that had gotten her into her current condition, in fact. He suddenly jerked away, one worry niggling at the back of his head. "Is it safe…I mean…I mean, if…if you…you want to, I mean…I…"

"It's very safe, and actually good for my health and the babies', too. I have a friend who's a nurse and she told me that regular, _vigorous_ sex is an excellent idea during pregnancy. Keeps everything…limber. She ought to know, anyway – she has two kids and is working on a third."

"Oh…right…uh…" He sat up on his knees, running a hand through his hair. He moved out of her way, and she got up, straightening her sweater, and studied him as he sat there, still looking a little bewildered. "You actually want…"

"I want you," she said softly. "Only you. It's only ever been you. There will never be another."

He finally stood up, facing her, and finally laughed a little. "This morning I told Lynch I didn't have any nerves. But now…I'm all shook up…I mean…twins…"

"Yes. Oh…" She blushed and giggled. "They're kicking." She took his hand and placed it over the spot on her belly. His eyes widened when he felt the fluttering against his palm.

"I felt it!" he said excitedly. "My son…or…daughter…" He pulled her to him and kissed her, sliding his hands around her waist and downwards, unashamedly cupping her fanny.

"We need to discuss names," she told him, in between increasingly heated kisses. "I'm partial to Alexander and Beatrice."

"_Beatrice_? No…I don't like Beatrice. I had a cousin named Beatrice…nasty little cow. She bit me once." He started nibbling her neck and her earlobe, which made her weak in the knees and lean against him for support.

"Okay," she answered breathlessly. "Something else that starts with a 'B'…" She took his hand and started leading him toward the stairs.

"Benedickte…"

"James…"

"Bonita? Belinda? Boudicea?"

"Very funny…come on…"

"_Brunnhilde_?"

"James! Take me upstairs this _instant_ and make love to me!"

"Yes. Well…okay. Geesh, are you always gonna be this bossy?" he said, hurrying along now. "And am I wrong in guessing that you're also having…cravings?"

"Yes. Yes, I am." She stood on her toes and kissed him. "Only for you. It's always been for you. Now let's go!"

* * *

They were finally resting, James's ear to her belly, listening to his babies. He had insisted he could hear them telling him things, and after a while, Seaborn decided he wasn't just imagining things. He informed her that their daughter definitely wanted to be a pilot some day, while their son wanted to be a US Marshal.

"Shouldn't it be the other way 'round?" she asked dreamily, stroking his hair.

"Girls can be pilots. Her mother's a pilot."

"Not any more."

"Eh…that can be corrected. Once a pilot, always a pilot." He lifted his head and grinned at her, and she smiled back. He moved up again, kissing her deeply, and she moved to accommodate him, sighing softly as he entered her again. "Am I hurting you?" he asked her, gasping as she nibbled at the eagle below his collarbone.

"James, you have never hurt me." She lazily slipped her arms and legs around him, moaning as he began rocking above her, moving slowly and gently. Their lovemaking was much quieter than before, but just as passionate and meaningful. "Oh…that's…so…perfect…" Her fingernails began digging into his back, but he barely felt it – he had plenty of her scratches on his back now, and relished each one. He kissed her as her back arced, absorbing her shout. She tore her mouth away and began nibbling at his neck, finally sinking her teeth into his shoulder as she gave herself to him. "Oh…please…please don't leave me yet…"

"I won't," he whispered back. She sighed and began moving eagerly with him. She felt the babies kicking and the tension building in him, and began to buck against him, crying out his name. She heard his glottal cry into her neck and felt his release before he finally relaxed again, kissing her gently before slowly easing onto his side, pulling her into his arms for a fierce hug. She snuggled into his arms and nuzzled his neck, sighing in contentment, still trembling.

"Did you feel them kicking?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. I felt 'em." He kissed her forehead and sighed into her hair.

"_Nakupenda_," she whispered against his chest, the curly hair tickling her nose. "_Ninapende wewe_."

He pulled back a little and stared at her, and she wasn't surprised to see his cheeks pinking. "I…I said that to you, in Iraq."

"I found out what it means," she told him. "And I mean it, too. Always."

He was silent for several moments, and drew in his breath. "That day…"

She saw a cloud of distress cross his face, and shook her head, touching his lips with her fingers "That day was more than three years ago now. It almost seems like a lifetime ago. Eons. It'll always be a part of me, in some way, but…it doesn't matter to me any more. It's not who I am – it's only something that happened to me that can't be changed. And I already loved you then. I suspect I loved you even before…probably since Fort Bragg. I know I had a pretty hard crush on you from the day I saw you, fighting with Face and Hannibal and B.A. in the hangar about a chopper and…a plastic flamingo?"

He laughed softly and squeezed her. "I love you," he said at last. She smiled, blushing prettily. "I will always love you. I couldn't stop if I tried." He paused, thinking, and finally nodded. "_Tuta wewe marika mie_?"

"Do I need to Google that phrase, James?" she asked him softly, before kissing him sweetly. "Mmm…"

"I'll tell you in a few minutes…but…uh…would you mind…Googling _me_…?"

She giggled and slowly moved her hand down his belly before kissing again, nibbling lightly at his lips as she found her target. "I wouldn't mind a bit, Captain. It's been…what, five months since I've…_Googled_…?"

"Yeah," he said, becoming breathless. "And we all know that…that Google is our friend…"

* * *

"This is what the Communists were against, you know," Seaborn whispered. She was stretched out beside him, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it slowed back down to normal. "_Decadence_."

"Yeah. And that's why Communism doesn't work, by the way. No fun allowed. Aside from the starvation from disastrous collective farming schemes, and having to wear Bulgarian shoes. Plus the toilet paper is just awful…that's why they never smiled. Communism got its collective ass whupped by the Sony Walkman and Levi's stonewashed jeans. Knockin' down the Berlin Wall was really just a formality."

She giggled and startled him by sitting up, facing him, not even bothering to cover herself, and drawing her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. "Now…what were you asking me a while ago?"

"Oh…that…" He was pretty well distracted now.

"Yes, that. What did you say, James?"

"I asked you to marry me."

Seaborn looked up at him, and bit her lip nervously. "For the babies…?"

"For me. I'm being totally selfish here, believe me."

She started laughing. "Oh?"

"Well…if I'm married to you, then I'm happy and probably not a mental case _quite_ as much. I'll have plenty of moments, but…no more lonely, no more wishin' I was free. I mean, there's an age difference, too, but hell, that's not a problem, is it?"

"No," she shook her head. "Definitely not. You wouldn't think you were trapped? I mean…I know you value your freedom, James."

"Marriage isn't a trap unless you make it one," he shrugged. "That's what Jack always told me. Hm…I really ought to call him. He'll be pretty excited…and I know he'll love you."

She smiled and lay down again, stretching like a cat and still not bothering to cover up at all. "I'll think about it, then."

"You'll…oh…okay." He looked around the room. It was getting light outside, and he finally looked at her, wondering how on earth a guy like him could have found somebody like her. "Right. Well, I guess I should go get us some food, huh?"

"That would nice. I am kind of hungry again."

"Cravings?"

"Just hungry, actually. Maybe sex cures the cravings? I don't know. But…" She turned onto her side and began to lazily trace the line of his Screaming Eagle tattoo. "You could get some stuff for us to eat up here, hm? Something…interesting?"

He nodded and climbed out of bed, with her lying there watching him as he pulled his jeans on. She smiled at him and sat up, and he moved back to her, crawling across the bed to kiss her. She didn't even slap his hand away when he started groping her, but she finally pulled away. "Food, James. Get some food!"

* * *

At first, they didn't even notice him. He was trying his best to be stealthy, but the moment he made it down the back stairs that lead into the kitchen, he spotted them and knew the game would be up soon. They were seated at the kitchen table, eating jelly donuts and talking. Fortunately, they all had their backs to him, which meant that so long as he didn't say anything, maybe they would leave him alone for now. He tip-toed to the fridge and opened it as quietly as possible, and started looking around.

Hm…whipped cream. He snatched up the tub and ducked back in. Was that really…a chocolate mousse? Seriously? He grabbed it, too, putting the tub of cream on top. He peeked over the top of the fridge door and noted that they were all still facing away from him. Hannibal had lit a breakfast cigar and Face was griping about something to do with strange thumping noises during the night. Murdock stifled a snicker and went back down to search for more. Oh, apple slices. Good, good…and maraschino cherries. Even better! Once the fridge had been properly raided, he looked around in the cabinets for anything else that looked _interesting_. There were three jelly donuts left – raspberry, chocolate and Bavarian cream, he noted with glee. He remembered the need for something to drink and went back to the fridge, grabbing the jug of orange juice.

Two clearing throats made him almost drop his entire load. "Jesus!"

"You kept me up all night!" Face said, arms folded across his chest, looking offended.

"I did?" Murdock squeaked back, trying his best to look innocent and not totally debauched.

"Yes! All that thumping! What, were you dancing in there?"

"Uh…yeah. Dancing. I was dancing."

"On your bad knee?" Hannibal asked him mildly. He had put away his cigar and was studying Murdock with amusement.

"Uh…um…part of the physical therapy, actually. The PT…he…he kinda…uh…suggested dancing as a means of…of…keeping it…uh…" The tub of whipped cream slid off the glass lid covering chocolate mousse, and Murdock was relieved it didn't explode and send fluffy white cream all over the floor. His brow furrowed then. "Where's B.A.?"

"_Aaauuuggghhhh_!"

"_Oh my God! Get out! Get out of here_!"

He was upstairs.

B.A. came clattering down the stairs just then, wide-eyed, and he skidded to a stop in the kitchen. He froze when he saw Murdock, whose eyes narrowed.

"I was up…I went in…I didn't…I swear I didn't…see…" Baracus was gasping, doing his best to do the honorable thing and erase that magnificent image from his mind. But he was also a guy and knew it would never go away from his subconscious, no matter how guilty it made him feel. Okay, so no eye contact with her for…the rest of his life, he figured. Good Lord…no wonder Murdock was crazy about that woman!

"See who?" Face said.

Hannibal rolled his eyes.

"Seaborn," B.A. said. "I swear to God, man, I didn't see…she was…I mean, she was…it was kinda _dark_…"

"You saw Seaborn _naked_?" Face gasped. "Aw, man…that's not fair!"

Murdock considered dumping his entire load of interesting breakfast food on Face's head, but that would ruin the fun he was going to have with Seaborn. He glared at his three friends, snatched the tub of Cool Whip up from the floor, lifted his chin, and stalked back up the stairs.

B.A. staggered to the table and sat down again. "I did notice that…that the plaster behind that headboard…needs to be…be replaced…" He covered his face with his hands. Face and Hannibal looked at each other, and Hannibal shrugged.

"Good God…_all night_…it's a wonder she's not carrying _triplets_!" Face said, looking up. B.A. put his head on the table and Hannibal went in search of another cigar.


	26. West with the Night

"I refuse to watch MSNBC," Murdock said. "And frankly, so does everybody else in America."

Seaborn giggled and changed the channel. "I was only testing to make sure you were paying attention."

They were sprawled on the couch in the living room, bickering cheerfully about what to watch. She was not, he discovered, very interested in watching a chick flick, at least not while in her condition. Instead, she was actually interested in watching ESPN – she liked football and baseball a good deal, but really hated basketball. Neither of them could figure out how poker was considered a 'sport', however, and they watched for a few moments, flummoxed, and then flipped it over to MTV. They were further bewildered to see that anyone considered gangsta rap to be 'music'.

"Then again, it's a pretty big surprise to see MTV actually showing anything related to music at all," Murdock pointed out. "I think nowadays it's…what, pregnant fifteen-year old girls in Arkansas?"

Hannibal was seated at the kitchen table, chin cupped in the heel of his palm, watching them kibbitz and feeling a strange twinge of envy and melancholy. Her presence in the house for the past two days had had a remarkably civilizing effect on them all – they all kept their language clean, picked up after themselves, put the toilet seats down, made sure to not cause or emit unpleasant odors, and kept the yelling to a minimum. All in all, it had been a very peaceful interlude for them all. Particularly Murdock, who hadn't had a single nightmare or outburst of any kind in the two nights she had been sleeping in his bed. _Ah, the love of a good woman_, Hannibal thought with a laugh.

Of course, Seaborn still had a fierce temper – her fury at B.A. for walking in on her being a prime example - but she had definitely softened, and her pregnancy had definitely made her more…settled. He rather doubted Seaborn would remain quite so easy-going after she had the twins, but he also suspected Murdock would have a lot of influence on her ability to take things more in stride, in spite of his own issues. The kid was going to be a superb father that was for sure. Far more patient than Hannibal figured he'd be with two screaming babies.

She was definitely calmer, and far more friendly (even if she still couldn't make eye contact with B.A.). He remembered that horrifying day at Tomahawk, and her screams of pain and terror, and Murdock's cold, black fury - Hannibal suspected he would have shot the thumbs off of any rapist, but it had been pretty clear his rage that day was twice as hot at seeing Seaborn being attacked. To Hannibal, it was definite proof that God was indeed just and loving, to see her sitting in there now, cuddled up on the couch with the pilot, eating popcorn and watching _House Hunters_ ("They're gonna pick house number three…it's cheaper and the ceiling lights don't look like subway station urinals, like house number two." "What's wrong with house number one?" "No dishwasher."), looking pretty as a picture and glowing with health. It was twice as good to see Murdock so obviously happy.

He and Seaborn had apparently agreed that Alexander – Alec – was an excellent name for their baby boy, but the girl's name was still giving them trouble and a book titled _50,001 Best Baby Names_ was on the coffee table, dog-eared at the 'B's, but none of the names had proven satisfactory to either of them.

"Bambi!" Face suggested, from his place on the other couch. He was stretched out, bored to tears because he wasn't even allowed to do any sexting to Charissa. He had been suggesting names all morning, each one worse than the previous.

"I am not naming my baby after a fictional deer, much less a _Playboy_ centerfold," Seaborn said emphatically.

"And Bambi was a buck, not a doe," Murdock pointed out. "Don't you know anything?"

"Brett," Hannibal said suddenly.

They all sat up and looked back at him. Hannibal nodded. "From _The Sun Also Rises_. My favorite book."

"A very pretty name for a kick-ass little girl," Seaborn nodded, smiling at Hannibal. "Brett." She whispered it a few times, and then startled everyone (Face's chocolate chip cookies went flying and B.A. dropped his apple pie slice) by shouting the name. "Yes, that works. You can stretch out the 'e' and make the name carry across the schoolyard and down the street, if necessary."

"I like it," Murdock nodded, after he recovered. "Brett Murdock. She'll grow up to be a private investigator, no doubt. How 'bout a middle name. Anybody got a middle name?"

"Ashley?" Face suggested, grinning, as he collected the cookies from the floor.

Murdock laughed. "No…then her initials'd be 'B.A.M.' Then we'd have people calling Alec Pebbles and her Bam-Bam. No dice."

Seaborn nodded. "Okay…James, what was your mother's name?"

"Louise…but her name doesn't work," he said quietly, shaking his head. "How about..."

"Beryl," Hannibal suggested from his place at the table. "Beryl Markham was a pilot…a famous _aviatrix_." Murdock looked back at him, and the Colonel just smiled, lighting a cigar. "Good writer, too. May your little girl be a _wise child_, too." He grinned at his own joke, and was surprised to see Seaborn smile back. He winked at her and she snickered.

"Brett Beryl Murdock," she nodded. "Sounds lovely. I like it! So…it's Brett Beryl and Alexander Simon." She grabbed the baby name book and wrote the names in the front cover. "Settled." She slapped the book shut and threw it on the table. "Another thing accomplished!" Murdock whispered something in her ear, and she giggled. "Well, yes, that too. Several times this morning alone."

"Brett and Lex," Face grinned.

"Alec," Seaborn and Murdock said in unison, and she settled back against his chest, his arm circled around her thickening waist, and they both couldn't keep from cooing when they felt the babies kick. They had another two hours before she had to leave for the airport and the flight home, and Hannibal wasn't looking forward to that. Murdock would be a nervous wreck for the next four months. Add the retrial on top of the poor guy being across the country while his twins were being born, and frankly all four of them would be climbing the walls by then. They just had to hold on until April the twenty-fourth and maybe – just _maybe_ – they would have their good names back.

Hannibal puffed on his cigar and looked down at his notes, written in his chicken scratch-cum-shorthand, outlining various escape plans if things didn't go their way again. He knew it would be particularly difficult to talk Murdock into leaving with them, but they wouldn't be a team without him. Then again…if and when he married Seaborn and settled down with her, he would still have to make a choice between two families, and that made Hannibal's stomach tighten. Murdock was loyal to his last breath, but Hannibal could never ask him to leave behind a wife and two little babies (and inevitably more than just _two_) to play Fugitive From Justice _or_ full-time Army Ranger, spanning the globe to get his ass shot at and risk his life for his country and his friends. God, family, country – that wasn't just a random ordering, Hannibal knew, for Murdock. Something would eventually have to give.

This was going to require a great deal of thought, and Hannibal figured that sooner or later, he'd just have to leave it up to God. What choice did he have now? Chance and God's sense of humor were both taking their time.

* * *

Murdock paced – well, _limped - _around on the back porch of the house, looking out over the Chesapeake Bay, watching the lights reflect in the choppy water and wondering how he'd ever get through the next four months. Lynch had told him firmly that he would be allowed to talk to Seaborn once a week so long as he behaved, and that he would send a trustworthy (and decidedly strong-stomached) CIA operative to Long Beach to catch the twins' births on film, and would even try to make the event a streaming video, which Murdock wasn't entirely sure Seaborn would appreciate, all things considered. He didn't know a _lot_ about women, but he knew that they didn't like cameras being aimed at that particular place and that _The Miracle of Life_ had to have involved a great deal of drinking.

She was up in the sky now, heading back to California, west with the night. They had sat together on the dock before she'd left, dipping their toes in the water and talking about plans. That had naturally led to a discussion of where they would live after the wedding, a matter that still hung on the hope of his exoneration. He had no desire to drag her from base to base, that was for sure, but she had quoted the Book of Ruth to him. "_Wherever you go, I will go. Wherever you lodge, I will lodge, and your people shall be my people, and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die and there will I be buried. The Lord to so to me and more also if aught but Death parts you and me_." The phrase was almost like a wedding vow. In fact, he realized that it really was, at least for them.

He had no ring to give her. So he had fashioned a pull-tab from a can of Dr. Pepper into a makeshift engagement ring, and had scrounged around the house until he found some rhinestones decorating one of the useless decorative throw pillows on the couch. A buck knife had pried the little stone off the pillow, some glue had attached the little 'diamond' to the pull-tab, and voila, Seaborn had a ring to show all her friends. He had dropped to his good knee as she'd come out of the shower (wearing nothing but a towel and an amused expression) and asked her if she'd marry him, for God's sake, and end his torment. She had accepted the 'ring', declaring it beautiful, and said yes, she would make an honest man of him at last.

Now an entire country would be separating them, for four long months. Sixteen weeks. Were it not for his friends' needing him to behave until the retrial, he would bolt right now and head back to California. Steal a crop duster and hide out somewhere in Long Beach until the babies were born. Of course, that idea was out of the question – Lynch had made that abundantly clear. He _had_ to follow the rules or the deal was off and it was back to Germany and backwards chess with Howie.

Behaving was not something Murdock did extremely well. He was a Southerner of Scottish stock, for one thing – rebellion was in his blood. Secondly, he had some psychiatric issues that kept him from being still for long periods of time and could rear their ugly heads from time to time. He was certainly willing to follow the guidelines Lynch had set, for the sake of Seaborn, his children, and his friends, but God help him, it was going to be a hard task.

Face came outside, jerking Murdock from his thoughts. The conman sat down at the table and drummed his fingers for a moment, as if debating something with himself. Finally, he shook his head. "I really envy you, man."

"Huh…there's a first." Murdock dragged himself to a chair and sat down, rubbing his knee. It was only a little sore, but at the end of the day, he was tired enough to admit that it was time to admit he couldn't do the watusi around the kitchen without serious repercussions.

"I mean, you've got it all. Gorgeous woman, babies on the way…" Face shrugged. "And I won't say it's weird, either. Of all four of us, I always figured you'd be the one to get married, after all."

"You're joking, right?" Murdock sat back, more than a little surprised. "Eight years now, knowin' I was nuts or close to it and you figured I'd get married?"

"Faithful 'til death, man, that's you. You can commit to a woman."

"Or be committed," Murdock nodded, grinning.

"I'm bein' serious, Murdock," Face remonstrated, shaking his head. "You can commit. You can say the vows and mean 'em. Me…hell, I think I'd pass out right there at the altar. Or run away screaming."

"Even if it was Charissa?" Murdock asked him seriously, which caused Face's cheeks to pink – Murdock could see that in the fading light.

"That may be why it didn't work the first time around – maybe she sensed I wasn't really ready to go for the brass ring, so to speak. May be why I worry that it still won't work, and that I can't be faithful. I don't want to get married, then, because maybe I can't, and I'd hate to put her through that."

Murdock shook his head. "'bout a year or so ago, if somebody had said I'd be engaged and fixin' to be a father, I'd have thought they were as crazy as me. Or crazier, even. But…eh…life's about change, ain't it? People can change. You just...have to want to."

Face laughed. "Right. Hey, before this turns into a conversation right out of a Lifetime movie, let's talk about sex or motorcycle races or killshots, huh?"

Murdock rolled his eyes. "What, you're needing instruction or something?"

"No. But with Seaborn…"

"I absolutely will not tell you how damn good it is with her, nor will I elaborate on all the things that woman can do when properly motivated. A gentleman does not kiss and tell. Or, for that matter, impregnate and tell."

Face cackled with laughter. "Oh, man, you really are a goner, aren't you? So when is the wedding? And can I crash it?"

"If you get drunk and leave with three of the bridesmaids, I will personally kill you with a branding iron and a weed whacker. And we're getting married some time after the trial. Soon as possible…and then she said she'd go wherever I went, which I still think is just plain _nuts_."

"Eh…" Face gestured. "Some women can do that. I mean, she's already done the Army thing – she knows what it's like to have to drag herself from post to post. And besides which, as you're a commissioned officer, you might be able to stay in one place for a while, if you work it right." He sat back, crossing his arms. "Boy, it'll be hard to not have you around."

"Who says I won't be around?"

"You'll be married. With kids. I can't see Hannibal making you choose between them and us. It's a no-brainer, Murdock. Wife and kids – they come first, end of story."

Murdock paled slightly and looked across the water. Face was right. It wouldn't be a choice at all. The very idea of leaving Seaborn and his children behind was hard enough to think about. The idea of leaving her a widow and his kids fatherless was anathema to him, and yet the thought of not being a part of his team was heartbreaking. He loved Seaborn – had confessed it to her, and had been thrilled to have her say it back so many times in the past two nights – and wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. But he also loved his team and hated being separated from them. Either way, as much as he would gain from having a home and a family of his own, he was going to lose a little part of himself along the way, and it was going to be a pain he wasn't sure how he'd cope with.

"If somethin' happens to me…" Murdock started, and Face raised his hand.

"Don't even say that," Face shook his head.

"But if somethin' does, I want y'all to take care of 'em. Protect 'em, make sure they're safe and happy, and…and, hell, I'd want Seaborn to marry again some day. Kids need fathers. We all know _that_."

"Murdock, we have come through every scrape alive because we're a team…and because of the old man in there. We'll get through this, too, and you'll get married even if we have to prop you up at the altar on a board, and you'll be there to watch your kids grow and your wife's hair turn gray and then you'll walk your daughter down the aisle when she insists on marrying that Hell's Angel…"

"What're you, the Amazing Kreskin? And what Hell's Angel?"

"I belong to the Psychic Friends Network," Face grinned. "His name is Claw. He has a tattoo that reads 'Allergic to the Law'…which rhymes!"

"You are such an idiot."

Face put his head down and laughed helplessly while Murdock glared at him, muttering about not allowing his baby girl to marry anybody with a vocation any more dangerous than that of, say, a pharmacist. He made no apology for being a male chauvinist pig, because in spite of his saying that he figured Brett would want to be a pilot some day, he would still encourage her to be something _safe_.

And if Claw showed up at any point, Murdock would just get Seaborn's Glock and settle the matter right then and there.


	27. Lightbulbs

There's a tiny reference in here, _barely_ noticeable, to a movie called _Jane Austen's Mafia!_ If you haven't seen it, I still don't really recommend the movie. It's just a stupid movie. If you've seen the movie, you might recognize the reference. Otherwise…well…just use your imagination. It's really just a little joke. Well...not a _little_ joke, if you know what I mean. Ahem.

Anyway. This is a filler chapter. Probably two more before it's all wrapped up. I'm just so busy lately that it's hard to get any writin' done except on weekends or late at night when I should be sleeping.

* * *

"I've got my feet up and I'm watching _The View_."

"Oh, good Lord, woman. What, are you being punished for something?" Murdock asked.

Seaborn laughed. "I always watch the show on Fridays. Kris and I had this game called 'Joy Behar says something stupid, take a drink'. We had to give up, though, because after a while neither of us could find the door. Now, I just watch for the laughs. Four saggy old hags sitting around yammering about things they know nothing about…it's very self-affirming, in the 'I may be as dumb as a post, but even I could outwit those old bats' sense."

"Well, turn it off. I don't want my kids exposed to such horror."

Seaborn switched the TV off and scratched Stalin's ears. She hadn't told him about the cat yet, figuring he would learn soon enough. She had asked him if he was allergic to any animals, and he had only said that camel spiders and scorpions tended to make him climb up anything – including B.A. - that might afford him any degree of safety. She wasn't sure how he would react to Stalin, though. Cats named after hard-eyed murderers would cause disquiet in even the calmest of souls, and James was not by nature a _calm_ man.

"Anyway…" She got up – carefully now, as it was becoming more and more obvious that deep-seated couches were not good places to sit – and waddled to the bathroom. She was seven months pregnant now, and expanding like Houston, Texas. The babies were having daily fistfights in there, and she had finally got down her Bible – not nearly as dusty as folks would think it would be – and read about Rebekah's pregnancy with Jacob and Esau:

'_But the children struggled together within her; and she said, "If all is well, why am I like this_?'" Now Seaborn knew what that really meant. Brett and Alec seemed to have an ongoing battle going on in there, and she hoped that once they were out and had some space to themselves, they'd start getting along better. Otherwise, the next eighteen years were going to be rough.

The doctor had told her that the babies were in perfect health. Growing, moving around, making faces for the sonogram (one of them – possibly Brett – had actually _grinned_), and only sleeping when she was up and awake and refusing to sleep when she went to bed. In fact, they were apparently nocturnal creatures, like raccoons, and twice as ravenous and active. That morning, Seaborn had guzzled down most of a gallon of orange juice, just to get them to cut her a break.

"What are you wearing?" James asked her.

She looked down at her dress, which had a juice stain on the front and was not quite large enough (even at 3x, maternity). "Uh…a teddy."

"What are you really wearing?" he asked after a moment.

"A huge blue and yellow dress – vertical stripes. It was made from the discarded awnings of an old resort hotel in San Diego that was shut down due to sheer tackiness. And I'm about as big as a hotel, too."

"I'm sure you're still dead sexy, baby."

"You have got to be kidding. I haven't had the energy to wash my hair in two days. I spilled cranberry juice on my dress this morning and frankly, I didn't care. I have to pee every fifteen minutes. I eat something, and frequently find stuff on my stomach a few hours later – crumbs and the like. I can't see my feet any more. And I don't think you even want to know about the other _issues_ I've got going on down below. Let's just say they're not pleasant."

"I liked the picture you sent me. _Rawr_…"

"You are such a pervert," she said with a laugh. "I never thought a big fat chick could turn a guy on."

"You're not fat," he said. "You're just…"

"Heavy?"

"You're not heavy, you're my fiancée."

She smiled and stroked her swollen belly, and felt one of the babies kick. "I miss you so much."

"I miss you too."

She put the phone to her belly and laughed as she heard James talk to his babies – something about rate of climb and the importance of keeping the rotors clean and clear of debris, and that led into instructions about being good to Mommy and letting her sleep. She finally put the phone back to her ear.

"Be sure play Lynyrd Skynyrd and Charlie Daniels and Georgia Satellite for 'em," James told her. "No Neil Young."

"Certainly not. A Southern man don't need him around anyhow."

"Amen…well, crud. Lynch is tellin' me I have to wrap it up. Te volim, baby."

She laughed. "Te volim."

He was teaching her how to say 'I love you' in several languages. So far, she could say it in Arabic, Aramaic, Greek, Swahili, Basque, Swahili, and now, Croatian. When he hung up, she cradled the phone to her chest and sighed. She loved her babies intensely – so much it scared her sometimes – but her love for James seemed to grow stronger every day - absence did make the heart grow fonder. Add that to a strangely (and _unnervingly_) heightened sexual appetite, she was having a hard time coping with _those_ cravings. She had a feeling that if James was with her, she wouldn't let the poor man out of bed.

"Okay," she told Stalin. "I'm fat, I'm weepy, my hair's a mess, and I'm horny."

The cat glared at her.

"Sorry. That probably wasn't what you wanted to hear. And this is strictly a PG-13 pregnancy. But let me tell you, Stalin – it was a rated R conception…actually, let's been totally honest. It was X-rated. I know you'd have refused to come in the room, all things considered. And I won't even get into the stuff he did to me in the shower back in Maryland…"

* * *

"Murdock, you seem distracted."

The pilot had forgotten to set the timer for the lasagna he had prepared and now all the team had for supper was Three Musketeers bars and a tossed salad. He grimaced and began scraping the ruined meal into the trashcan. B.A. came in, saw the disaster, smelled acrid garlicky smoke and sighed before turning on his heel and leaving, looking more grieved than angry. He had been looking forward to that lasagna.

Face steered Murdock to the table and sat him down. "We have to talk."

"Okay, okay…but if this is about the birds and the bees, I think we're a little late, Facey," Murdock told him, looking a little more wild-eyed than usual.

Face shook his head. "That's not it, but I suppose it has something to do with birds and bees. Listen, man, I understand you being a little _off_ due to being separated from Seaborn. I understand that. We all do. But lately you've been acting even weirder than usual. The food cravings and the swollen ankles and crying during Hallmark movies…it's got to stop, or you'll die. Or we'll kill you."

Murdock nodded and shuffled his feet under the table. "I'll try, man. I'll…I'll pay more attention when I'm cookin', too. No more scorched lasagna."

"Or for that matter, scorched CIA spooks. That guy didn't enjoy that night in the emergency room."

"Well, CIA spooks and chickens both seem to not enjoy being near open flames," Murdock nodded.

"Okay. Now that we've discussed your issues, let's talk about something else. Like…me, for instance. I'm goin' a little nuts, too, y'know."

"You are?" Murdock leaned forward and noted a certain wild gleam in Face's eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Do you know how long it's been since I've had sex, Murdock?" Face asked him intently, and perhaps unconsciously, he grabbed the pilot's hand and leaned toward him, looking intently into his eyes, causing the pilot to flinch in alarm. He leaned back in his chair and winced as Face's grip tightened.

"Er…well, yes, I suppose it has been a while. You told me of a guard in the prison, right, and I'm assuming the guard was of the female persuasion…"

"Of course it was a she!" Face said, exasperated, still clutching his friend's hand. "Murdock, no one has dipped her toes in Lake Peck in more than seven months, and I'm losin' it, man! Seven months! I'm losin' my mind!"

"Listen, I sympathize, Facey, but there's nothing I can do about your predicament, so…let go of my hand and get that look out of your eyes, okay?" Murdock snatched his hand away from the agitated conman and shook his head. "Besides, I am _taken_."

"Not even any of the spooks are female!" Face wailed. "I…I'm worried that I'll be out of practice and next…next time I see Charissa, I'll…I think I'll…"

"See the coming of the Melty Man?" Murdock said, having to pinch himself in the leg to keep from snickering.

"Shut up! You promised you'd never talk about the Melty Man again!"

"Listen, you're a horndog. You can't help that…well…you could, but you choose not to. You're also kind of…well…stupid, when it comes to women. Remember that woman you dated, a few years ago, who liked it when you wore that studded leather mask? Remember what happened?"

Face paled and looked away. "That was kind of…"

"Horrifying. You ran into a Walgreens in the middle of the night, wearin' that thing, and carried an armload of condoms to the checkout counter. Sure, you got quick service, but you also got a very unpleasant visit from the police that night…but before that, you had to run into that bar to find me, too. I still don't believe you didn't realize you had that thing on, Face. Seriously. People were _frightened_. So…think of this way…no visits from the police! No unexplainable nudity. No accidentally swallowed handcuff keys and…no VD!" He smiled brightly.

"Shut up!" Face yelled. "It was three days before I was able to finally let that poor woman loose, and believe me, she wouldn't _speak_ to me, much less participate in any of the activities I had planned, and she sure didn't like bein' stuck in my bed all that time. All she did was bitch about my television viewing preferences. Like women can't handle a little ESPN."

"Odd that a woman who did, in fact, work in law enforcement wouldn't have a lot more handcuff _stamina,_ so to speak…" Murdock nodded gravely.

Face crossed his arms, huffing indignantly. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"How're you handling it? The celibacy? I mean…from what I understand, you've only been with Seaborn a total of…what…four nights? And the first time around, you got her pregnant. Geesh…"

Murdock shrugged. "Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "Best four nights of my life."

"Oh, please…what about that trapeze artist? Or that Russian gymnast? Or…"

"Shut up, okay?"

"Or the girl with the pet boa constrictor."

"That was _Hannibal_," Murdock rolled his eyes. "You know, he got a facial tic from that evening that plagues him to this day."

"Okay, then, the contortionist. Remember her? We didn't see you for three days."

"Cut it out, okay? I don't remember those women. A guy can decide to not remember something, if he so chooses. Once I got together with Seaborn, I forgot about those women. And as for the contortionist, she was double jointed and she kept screaming 'Lisa!' over and over again. I realized that that was not going to work."

Face burst into laughter and covered his face with his hand. "Remember that date you went on…oh, God, when was this? Six or seven years ago? I set it up…and yes, I am still sorry. You went back to her place and…"

"She had a black and white photograph over the fireplace, of a naked man with easily the biggest damned…" Murdock shuddered. "And he was holding a white lily. I nearly passed out. Dropped my drink, ran out the door screaming…"

"And remember that nudist colony? Oh, God, that was…horrible. Why don't attractive people ever want to be naked in public? It's always old women and fat guys."

Murdock started snickering. "Volleyball in the nude. Remember Hannibal? 'Is that a legal serve'? That was in Spain. The little kid screaming 'Mommy, why are those people naked?' I still don't like being naked in public. It's not that I'm really embarrassed, but I sunburn easily and every time I turned around, I knocked somethin' over…"

"Think about this, Murdock," Face said, once he managed to settle down again. "One day, you just know you and Seaborn are gonna get caught…you know…_in flagrante delecte_…"

Murdock nodded. "Yeah. I remember walking in on Jack and Marie when I was about…six."

"Oh yeah? What happened?"

"They told me they were changing lightbulbs. So I said, 'Naked?' and Jack says, 'Well, in case there's a spark, we don't want our clothes to catch on fire…so…safety first, son, safety first!' Of course, a few days later, the preacher came by for Sunday dinner and the lightbulb over the dining room table went out, and I hollered, 'Be sure and take off all your clothes 'fore you change the bulb, Dad!'."

Face giggled. "I remember the first I ever saw somebody havin' sex. I was probably seven. I was stayin' with some foster parents and I walked in on 'em and there was all this huffing and moaning, and then I heard the guy yell 'Glory!' and then they both rolled over and lit up cigarettes. I vowed then and there I'd never do anything so disgusting. It was a few years later that I learned that the cigarettes were optional."

Murdock rolled his eyes. "Listen…either way, I'm serious about Seaborn. She's the one, y'know? The one and only."

Face grinned at him. "I know, man. I'm happy for ya. This wedding…where's it gonna be? And speaking of Jack and Marie, are you gonna invite them?"

"Well, I should…"

"Yeah, you should," Hannibal said from the doorway. The Colonel came into the room, still in his pajamas and bathrobe, looking bleary-eyed. "Maybe Lynch would let you call them and tell them you're all right and an expectant father as well?"

"I reckon he would…" Murdock scratched the back of his head. "I could ask Jack for some advice on how to be a father, anyhow. How to change diapers, for one thing."

"Point it _down_, that's for sure," Face nodded.

"And father's have to give their boys good advice, all around," Hannibal nodded gravely and sat down. Face got up and got him a beer, which he popped open and drank down in one gulp. "Like…uh…never hit a girl, even when she's askin' for it. Never…never do something just because everybody else is. Never lie, never cheat, never steal…uh…be a good neighbor…"

"Jack always said that good fences and quiet dogs make excellent neighbors," Murdock laughed.

"Amen," Hannibal nodded. "I wish Lynch'd let us make some calls, though."

"Who're you wantin' to call?" Face asked. "Your sister?"

"She knows about this deal," Hannibal shook his head. "She understands. It's…um…never mind." He stood up. "I'm goin' to bed. I ate my candy bar and finished my salad. Now all I need is a spoon and maybe I can dig my way to freedom."

"You know…" Face began cautiously. "I know there's a rather attractive brunette who lives back near Fort Bragg who…"

Hannibal's expression became guarded, but Face pressed on bravely.

"Have you contacted her lately? What was her name? Joan…Joanna?"

The pilot and the conman were both startled to see their CO look so uncomfortable. Smith cleared his throat and studied his feet for several moments before he finally grabbed another beer from the 'fridge and made a quick getaway. Face and Murdock looked at each other, and both men finally shrugged. With Hannibal, it was anybody's guess, but they both sympathized. All four of them were experiencing cabin fever and their fair share of the blues.

Just two more months and they might just be free. They were all going to have to endure. If it meant burned lasagna and late-night arguments and war stories, so be it. They would hold on, because they were a family and they couldn't imagine being separated again.

They would hold on.


	28. Debut

Sorry it's been so long. Lack of inspiration, and even less time to spare. I'm so busy sometimes I don't know whether to scratch my watch or wind my butt. Past few weeks, writing has had to take a backseat to everything else.

Anyway…

I was in no mood for a protracted labor. If there's anything that ought to go quickly, it's childbirth, as far as I'm concerned. Of course, I never did it. And since I know God is loving and merciful (to me and to children), I never will. I hope the birth isn't unrealistic. I was too tired tonight to really research or ask my mother. I suspect it was, all in all, unpleasant for her. She did it three times. Three big boys. (I was adopted). I can't even imagine!

* * *

Murdock placed the lasagna on the table, where the goats could get it, and sat down, looking none too pleased with himself. Hannibal, B.A. and Face tucked into their meal, digging out huge globs of the stuff and slapping it onto their plates. The dining room became quiet, save for the sounds of rhythmic chewing, and Murdock was finally able to relax. He glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece, however, for the five-hundredth time and winced.

It was Seaborn's due date. Actually, she was technically due two weeks from today, but according to Kris, who had spoken to him on the phone two hours before, she either had to go into labor today or she would be induced tomorrow, to avoid stressing herself and the babies out too much. "They're playing hell with her, let me tell you," Kris had told him, in confidence. "Don't worry – she's as healthy as a horse, but she's starting to look stressed, and her last visit with the doctor was the clincher – he said she had to have those babies soon. Two weeks wouldn't make much of a difference, as the babies are fully developed and heading toward the exit anyway."

_Don't worry_. As if, he thought, drumming his fingers testily on the table. Face glanced at him, finally seeing through his haze of ricotta and 'secret sauce' long enough to note that Murdock wasn't eating.

"Hey, bud, come on. She's fine."

"What if she's in labor now? What if she's having trouble?" Murdock asked, his voice squeaking with nervousness.

"If she's having trouble," Hannibal pointed out. "They'll call you. Until then, try to stay calm."

Murdock glared at his CO. "When have I had a calm moment in the space of my entire existence?"

"Well…" Hannibal pondered a moment. "There was that time you were unconscious…"

"I've been unconscious several times!" Murdock burst out. "I've been knocked unconscious, and I've been feverish unconscious, and there was that time Face wore that cologne…"

"You promised you'd never mention that again!" Face squawked, offended. "It took two days to get rid of that smell!"

"Yes, and I'm sure glad I was unconscious!" Murdock snapped back. He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "She'll be in labor and in pain and I won't be there."

"Yes, and think of it this way – you won't hear her threaten to drop you with a deer rifle if you ever go near her again," Hannibal said, nodding gravely. "And she won't slap the damned stopwatch across the room and demand that you be killed. She won't squeeze your hand so hard you end up with double the normal number of bones in there."

"That would be fifty-four bones!" Murdock gasped.

"Jeepers, yes," Hannibal nodded, doing his best Eugene Levy, but failing miserably.

"How do you know so much about women in labor?" Face asked Hannibal.

"I was my sister's Lamaze coach," Hannibal shrugged. "I hadn't heard so much screaming since that Van Halen concert I went to a few years ago. And that was just the noise coming from the men's room…"

"And never ask them when they're due," B.A. said. "Never. Like I said once before, they hit you with bricks when you ask 'em that question, man. Particularly if they're _not_ pregnant. Mama always told me, 'never ask a woman how old she is, how much she weighs, or when she's due', and as usual, Mama was right."

"Yeah…" Face rubbed the back of his neck. "Wow…Murdock, by the end of this day, you could be a dad."

Murdock's face paled and slowly turned a sickly green. "What will they call me, d'ya think? Dad? Daddy? Papa? Captain Crazypants?"

"Well, first of all, you should shoot for them learning to talk, and then worry about monikers," Hannibal nodded. "They usually start with Dada, anyway."

"Right," Face nodded. "And Brett will have you wrapped around her little finger, and the other one…"

"Alec."

"…will either become a Ranger like you…"

"Or a ballet dancer," B.A. snickered.

"Shut up, fool!" Murdock snapped.

* * *

Seaborn had finally dozed off, right in the middle of a episode of "Baggage" on the Game Show Network, and was awakened by a strange sensation – like a kind of pressure down below, where she hadn't really felt pressure until lately, but now it was like vise around her waist. She gasped and tried to sit up, but that wasn't possible in her position.

She was at Kris's house now, the nurse insisting that she stay with her during the final weeks of her pregnancy, and had taken up residence in the guest bedroom. Her bed was fortunately pretty comfortable, even though she never was. The babies were, indeed, playing hell with her bladder, and she had lost count of the number of nights she had been unable to sleep at all, what with Brett and Alec bouncing around in there. She was frazzled, short-tempered, sleepless and almost always hungry.

This sensation, however, was different. The doctor had told her she was going to have to go into labor herself today or she would have to be induced, because the babies were – as he had delicately put it – fully cooked and ready to pop out. "Like toast," she had told Kris, who had had the nerve to just look amused. She touched her swollen belly and was about to try again to get up when she felt a powerful pain and suddenly the bed was wet.

"Oh, dear God," she gasped. The pain was intense, and she howled in agony. Desperate, struggling to remain calm, she scrabbled for the telephone, but couldn't quite get to it. She lay back on the pillows, trying to remember how to breathe correctly. Hee-hee-hee or ha-ha-ha? Ho-ho-ho? No, that's Santa Claus…the creepy bastard…

Another pain hit her and she cried out, unable to keep quiet at this rate. In fact, she didn't give a damn if she woke up everybody in the damned _state_. She heard a bang, and feet scrabbling across the room. Isabella – eight years old and as serious as a judge – was standing there, wide-eyed.

"Are you okay?"

"Get your mother!" Seaborn managed.

Isabella rushed out of the room, and a few moments later reappeared with Kris, who took one look, yelped, and in her sleep-addled state, said, "You ruined my sheets!"

"Oh, oh, how horrible. I do apologize!" Seaborn gasped. "And believe me, I'd love to discuss proper reparations, colors and thread-counts…but I don't think I can right now because I'M IN LABOR!"

Kris nodded. "Right…right…sorry…okay, stay calm. How far apart are the contractions?"

"I don't know!" Seaborn yelled. "Just kill me!" Another contraction gripped her, and she writhed helplessly. "Oh my God…I think…I think one of them is coming _now_!"

"Takes after you, I guess," Kris said, moving around to the end of the bed. She gestured to Isabella. "Sweetie, go get some towels and clean sheets…"

"And hot water…" Seaborn said, between gritted teeth.

"We don't need hot water. That's just in movies. Isabella, towels, sheets, and Mommy's kit."

"Yes'm." Isabella dashed away, and Kris began prepping Seaborn, her calm, efficient movements actually soothing Seaborn a little.

"Don't worry, Seaborn. Everything is going to be fine. Sorry, no stirrups in here. Hank and I never did get that kinky, so we'll just use these pillows. Doing okay?"

Seaborn, gasping in pain, nodded and yelled in pain when another, powerful, contraction gripped her.

Isabella returned with the sheets and Kris's kit, with Hank behind her. He took one look, winced, and backed out a few steps before remembering he was a policeman and had actually delivered a few babies in his own time. "What do you need?" he asked his wife.

"Just call the ambulance – no sirens – and make sure Seaborn's suitcase is at the door."

He nodded and left. Jake appeared at the door, yelped and went back to his room, having no desire to witness the blessed event.

"Okay, Seaborn. Just gonna take a feel here and see where you're at…yep, that baby's on its way. How are you doing?"

"Pain…don't you have an epidural?" Seaborn gasped. She was trying so hard to stay calm and collected she was starting to freak out. The pain was intense, and the contractions were coming hard and fast.

"Nope. Now…when I tell you, push."

"You're joking!"

"Believe me, Seaborn, I'm not. Save the humor for the first diaper changing. The baby's head is already cresting. Wow…coming fast, I must say…kid's in a hurry. Maybe he takes after his dad? Come on now…okay, Seaborn, you're gonna have to push."

"Oh, sweet Jesus…"

"Yes, He is sweet, and He loves you, but _you're_ the one in labor. Now _push_!"

* * *

Murdock woke with a start, feeling a jarring stab of pain across his abdomen, and sat up with a shout. The cell phone Charissa had given him nine months ago was ringing, and he snatched it up, almost dropping it in his efforts to answer. "Hello?" he shouted.

"Hey, Captain, this is Hank…"

"Hank?" He searched his memory, and finally remembered that Hank was Kris's unflappable husband. "What's going on?" he yelled.

"Stop yelling. She's doing fine. Head's cresting."

"Head's _whating_?"

"Cresting. Baby's on its way right now…whoops…hey, Kris, how's it going?"

Murdock could hear Seaborn yelling in the background – something about Jesus and please kill her and if she ever saw James again, she'd stab him to death with a letter opener. He sat down, holding the phone to his ear, listening intently. He glanced up and saw Face standing in the doorway, looking gotch-eyed from lack of sleep but otherwise curious. "What's going on?"

"She's in labor!"

"Who is?" Face asked him.

"Geraldine Ferraro! Seaborn, you idiot!"

"Oh…wow…" Face rubbed his face and sat down beside his best friend. "Wow…"

Murdock heard more shouting, and then intense screams of pain, which sent him into heart-pounding fear. Hank continued talking, in a surprisingly calm voice. "She's pushing…pushing…have to say I'm glad I'm at _this_ angle…"

_"It's a boy!"_ Murdock heard Kris say, and he heard his son's loud, indignant cry. He then heard Hank talking. "They're in there. Yeah, she just had the first one…yeah, twins…everything looks good…"

"How is Seaborn?" Murdock yelled. "Who are you talking to?"

"She's okay. The paramedics are here, but the girl's heading for the exit right now!"

"Can…can she talk?"

"The girl? No, not for a couple years yet…oh, you mean Seaborn? Hey, can you talk to Captain Murdock?" he heard Hank ask. He heard more voices, and the sound of the phone being fumbled around.

"James!" Seaborn's voice was ragged, and she sounded exhausted. "James, we have a baby!"

"I know, baby. I know. I heard him! He's loud"

"He's very loud, and he's _big_ – it hurt! But I have to say, I handled it very calmly. Cool as a…a…well, very cool and calm." Murdock heard Kris snickering, and Seaborn made an indignant 'hrmph' sound. "He's a lot bigger than I expected!" Alec was screaming, enraged at being thrown into a cold, unfamiliar world, and he heard her soothing the baby, speaking in a tone he had never heard her use before. "It's all right, Alec. It's all right. Mommy's here…and Daddy will be here, soon, too…"

"Are you holding him? What does he look like?"

She giggled tiredly. "Yes…he's beautiful. He has a lot of hair! At this point, he looks like an old cab driver, but they all look like that when they're first born, from what I've heard. Oh…oh, do I have to…? Oh…okay…it's okay, they're just taking him to check him over and clean him up. Our son…ow…"

"What?" James asked her anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"Contraction!"

Kris's voice came over the line then. "Hey, Captain. This is Kris. Looks like Brett's going to make her debut in a few minutes. Y'all got the epi? Good, give it to her. She's worn out – that was a big boy. Let's make this one as easy on her as we can. Okay, Seaborn, just relax and let the guy do his thing…"

"Will it hurt the baby?" Seaborn asked anxiously.

"No. Just make you drunk and goofy and you'll have this baby as God intended – strapped to a gurney and numb from the neck down. Okay. How're you feeling now?"

"Oh my…oh my God, that's…oh, if I weren't already engaged to an Army Ranger, I'd kiss you," Seaborn told the EMT, who grinned at her, and she giggled. "I don't feel a thing!"

"Good. You still have to push, though, sweetie. Hold her up, Hank. Stay up there…"

"…or I'll pass out. Remember the lasagna?"

Kris burst out laughing.

"Wha' 'bou' lashana?" Seaborn asked, barely able to hold her head up any more.

"Oh…" Kris shook her head, and nodded to Hank to tell the story. "The epi's taking effect already! Good. Look at me now, Seaborn."

Seaborn looked at her, glassy-eyed and only feeling uncomfortable. Everything was getting a little wavy now – like a Picasso painting. It suddenly hit her that just a few years ago, she would have laughed at anybody who suggested she'd be having _sex_, much less giving birth.

"Kris had to have a C-section with Isabella. I saw the whole thing, and I actually did really well," Hank told her, keeping his place by Seaborn's side and not heading southwards.

"He was excellent. Cool as a cucumber," Kris smiled affectionately at her husband.

He grinned back at her, a sensible, humorous man. "Anyway, I saw it all and I was okay. Not a problem. Isabella came out healthy and beautiful, and Kris was fine, thank the Lord above. A few weeks later, we're at home and I'm making lasagna. I get the lasagna out of the oven, put it up on the rangetop, take the tin foil off, see the lasagna, remember the C-section…and _then_ I passed out."

Seaborn giggled, though she wasn't sure if she was giggling about the story or because of the epidural. She obeyed Kris's order, however, to push. It was all rather dream-like this time around, and she didn't feel much at all. She could hear her son crying in the background, and looked at the EMT holding him, narrowing her eyes at him to tell him he'd better not hurt her baby or she'd shoot him with her Glock.

"Okay, Seaborn, let's give it a good push and she'll be out."

More pressure. A bit of pain, really, but it was almost like a distant pain, with the edge taken off by the blessed drug. She bore down, grabbed the nearest thing – Hank's hand – and squeezed. Hank dropped to his knees, yelping with pain, and she heard Brett crying and Kris laughing.

"There you go…beautiful baby girl. Okay, guys, let's just get them both cleaned up. Seaborn, how ya feelin'?"

"Drunk…" Seaborn burbled and put her head back. Hank got back to his feet and managed to pull his hand out of her deathgrip and flexed his fingers, shaking his head. "My baby…baby girl, can I hold her?"

"She had both babies?" Murdock yelled into the phone. Kris snatched the receiver – which was lying beside Seaborn's foot - up.

"Yes, both babies. Alec and Brett are both _perfect_, Captain. Seaborn's kinda goofy now, but she's okay. There's some other stuff to be done now, so just hang tight. Seaborn, now you remember what happens after the babies are born, and it's unpleasant enough, but I swear I won't make you look at the placenta. I never understood that concept at all. I remember when Jake was born – the doctor was bandying that placenta around like it was a bowling trophy. Just a minute here and that'll soon be over. Hank, the sheet please, please. Hey, guys, give the babies to Seaborn, hm?"

Seaborn cradled her twins in the crooks of her arms, looking down at them in awe. Brett's little tuft of hair was red, and she had James's chin and nose. Alec thick mop of dark hair was in whorls, like James's, and he had her nose and eyes. "Look at them. Aren't they beautiful?" she asked. "Did anybody film it?" she asked wearily.

"No, sorry. Camera's…elsewhere," Hank said, glancing at Kris, who knew he had forgotten about it in the excitement, but then again, who would think about a camera when twins were being born in a bedroom in Long Beach?

"Well…I'm not doing a retake!" Seaborn told him. "At least…at least not for a few years." She looked up and saw Kris using her cameraphone to take a picture of her and the babies. She didn't care that she looked exhausted, and that she was wearing a big, goofy grin. She smiled for the flash, and looked down at her babies, already head over heels in love with them both.

* * *

Murdock rang off at last, and glanced at the clock. He stared down at the photograph of Seaborn and the babies – Alec wrapped in a blue towel, Brett in pink. It was six in the morning, and from his calculations, Brett and Alec had made their grand entrance at roughly three a.m. L.A. time. He sincerely hoped they looked like their mother. No kid deserved to be saddled with _his _looks.

Face, sitting in the chair by the bed, grinned happily – if a bit sleepily – at the picture and smacked him on his good knee. "Congratulations, Pops. You're a Daddy!"

Hannibal, blinking and rubbing sleep from his eyes, nodded. "I'll go get the cigars."

"I'll get the cheesecake!" B.A. said, and darted out of the room.

"He'd get a cheesecake for Talk-Like-A-Pirate Day. I'll get the whipped cream. Normally, I'd have it in my bedroom, but it's in the fridge," Face said, getting up, squeezing Murdock's shoulder and grinning. "Man, this is so cool. I'm an uncle…can I be a godfather?"

"You have to be _asked_. You do not presume," Hannibal told Face as he grabbed the lieutenant and shoved him out the door. "Move it, kid. Leave him alone for a minute."

Once alone, Murdock had to take several deep breaths to get himself under control again. This was _big_ – the biggest, best, most important thing he'd ever done in his life.

He lay back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Seaborn and how he'd ever make this up to her – not being there for her – and how he'd ever explain this to his kids: "I was in federal custody when you were born. And before that, I was in a mental hospital in Germany! Now come on, let's go play lawn darts with the dog!" He felt tears in his eyes, and wiped them away.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know," Hannibal told him, coming back into the room. "Sorry, I know I told Face to leave you alone, but I suspect you need a pep talk right now."

"What if they're embarrassed about me?" Murdock asked him, sitting up again and beginning to wring his hands anxiously.

"Why would they be embarrassed? A highly decorated military hero as a father? A brave, honest, decent man is about all a kid wants in its father – somebody to admire and brag about, and believe me, they'll brag about you. Mommy's for hugs and warm milk and comfort, which is good and right and normal. Dad's for protecting them and teaching them how to play football. Or at least Tomb Raider…you know, when they're little. Then you have to teach them right from wrong, and good from evil, and about honor and duty and being good to other people…and God knows, James, you know that stuff by heart, so it'll be easy for you."

"But I've got…you know…_mental…_"

"Twaddle. You're no crazier than anybody else, I suspect. Yeah, there's a higher level of…something going on in there, but that's manageable and you'll have Seaborn to put your feet back on the ground when necessary, and I happen to be fully confident that the two of you will raise two happy, normal kids…and probably more than just two."

Murdock gulped. "More than just two?"

"Probably a dozen or so. Or is the ruined wall behind your headboard not a sure sign of things to come?" Hannibal handed Murdock a cigar. "C'mon, me lad. Have a smoke. B.A.'s downstairs tearing the fridge apart, looking for a cheesecake. We've got two bairns' heads to wet and some CIA spooks to wake up with all the singing! I think if Face has his way, we're about to have a party!"


	29. Nearly the End

"_The Battle of Armageddon, if you actually read Revelation, is something of an anticlimax. It's over before it even starts_."

~Anonymous

Don't panic, though. All's well. Some nice developments (I hope) and the reunion I was flapping my way toward is finally happening! Woot!

* * *

"Heya, hot Mama."

Seaborn laughed. "Oh, is this the cable company? How can I get Current TV removed from my lineup? I have enough stupid in my life as it is."

"This isn't the cable company."

"Oh, is this one of those political telephone calls? Sorry, but last time I got a call from your party, I cussed you out and made you start crying…which frankly says a lot about your party."

"No, this isn't a politician. Don't be insulting."

"Oh, so it's my breather?"

"Your _what_?"

"He only calls every week or so. Quite interesting."

"What breather? Is somebody stalkin' you?" His voice hardened, and Seaborn knew when to call it quits.

"Nobody's stalking me, James. Only problem I'm having is that I don't have enough milk for the babies, and so now I'm trying to get them to take a bottle."

"Not enough milk? Oh…I'm sorry, baby. Or should I be sorry?"

"It's okay – there's no 'sorry' involved. Probably for the best – nursing was messy and pretty uncomfortable. I went to the doctor last week and fell asleep in the waiting room, and woke up with big wet spots on my chest. So embarrassing, and even then I wasn't putting out quite enough. They're adjusting to the bottle, but I have to say, Brett is being the most stubborn about it."

"Takes after you, I reckon. How're they doing otherwise?"

"They're excellent. Making all the normal progress, though I must say I'm certain that both of them are geniuses and will be in graduate school before they turn twelve."

"That's two college loans, baby," he reminded her.

"And one wedding." Seaborn glanced over at the pair of bassinettes and smiled at the twins, who were sleeping soundly, mouths working, tiny fists clenched. Their mottled newborn coloring had changed to perfect baby pink, and their respective brown and red hair was silky and soft. More and more, she was seeing definite signs of their vastly different personalities – Brett was temperamental and impatient, and Alec was calm and easy-going about everything. They were both remarkably well-behaved at two weeks, though not quite sleeping through the night. The adjustment had been major for Seaborn, and she was experiencing the normal postpartum symptoms – depression (weeping openly every time she watched _Amazing Wedding Cakes_), exhaustion, and a desire to nest.

"So you're back at your apartment now?" he asked her.

"Yep. I'm taking an extended leave from work, too. There's no use denying that taking care of twins is a major job, and more important than any damned _career_ I'll ever have. Thank God I have good chuck of cash in the bank. How are you doing?" she asked him. "Have you heard about…hey, the trial is scheduled for…oh my God, it's today!"

"Yeah. Today."

"Are you on your way there now?"

"Nope."

"No. _No_? What's going on?"

"Well…" He drawled. "We met with a buncha generals and some lawyers and…well, it's all over."

"All over? What's all over? What did they say?" she asked, raising her voice, agitated.

"They said we were treated very ill indeed, and they overturned our convictions, and we'll be getting our ranks and stripes and bars back soon, and the pensions are in the works, retroactive, too…"

"You were acquitted?" she shouted, elated. "Really? You aren't just joking with me are you?"

"Of course not. I'm comin' out there tomorrow…if you'll have me." There was a trace of anxiety in his voice, and Seaborn had a hard time calming herself down. She was finally going to see him. After five lonely, exhausting months.

"Of course I'll have you! Of course! Oh my God, James, you're finally free! Didn't I tell you they'd do the right thing?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you did. You were right, as usual. It's all still kinda whirlin' around in my head, y'know? Hannibal will deny it up and down, but I swear he was cryin', and B.A. ate a cheesecake the minute we got home, and Face went shopping for all kinds of emollients and colognes and shampoos, and he dragged me along with him, so if I smell funny, blame him."

She burst into laughter. "Oh, God…I won't care how you smell. I can't wait to see you!"

"I can't wait, either. What are you wearing?"

"I'm actually wearing a zip-up bathrobe and bunny slippers. I put away all my maternity clothes…but I've got a few pounds to get rid of. My hair's a mess."

"When can I see you naked again?" he asked her, and she giggled.

"The doctor says I should wait at least three months for…" she glanced at the sleeping babies, wondering if they should be hearing such things. "For us to…er…have fun."

"_Three months_? I'll die!"

"There's other stuff, you know."

"Oh? What other stuff?"

"Well…" Seaborn couldn't keep from blushing. "You know…the other stuff."

"Oh. Oh, that stuff. Well…right." He cleared his throat. "Right. I remember that stuff. Pretty fun, that stuff."

"So do I, and yes, it was rather…delightful."

"Why three months?" he asked.

"Well, it was twins, and the doctor insists I rest as much as possible, and he figures _that_ wouldn't be entirely good for me now."

"Oh. Well, doctor's orders."

"When will you be here?" she asked him eagerly.

"Tomorrow night, I think. They're all comin' with me. I hope you don't mind…they really want to see the babies. Hannibal's all, 'I'm a grandfather' and B.A. loves kids, and Face actually gets all weepy sometimes, though he claims it's just allergies...and meanwhile, I just wanna hold 'em and then I wanna hold you and maybe you'll let me see you naked anyway..."

"I think we can work something out. But they'll have to stay at a hotel tomorrow night. I want you to myself…call me a selfish little bitch if you like, but I refuse to share you for a while. In fact, I may handcuff you to the bed for a few weeks at least."

"Sounds like a plan!"

"I miss you, James. I love you. I can't wait to see you again."

"I'm climbin' the walls, baby. I love you…we'll be on a plane tomorrow morning. I may even get to fly it myself!"

* * *

Hannibal had never been so nervous in his life. He kept wringing his hands, and his mouth was dry, and he had to tell himself to stop pacing three times. Finally, he stood still, screwed up all his courage, and rang the doorbell.

A few moments of pure terror and finally the door opened and she was standing there, looking momentarily stupefied before her eyes widened with shock and…to his utter relief…delight. "John!"

"Hi. I mean…hello. I mean…uh…"

"I believe the word _is_ hello," she smiled, the good humor he liked so much shining in her eyes.

"Right. Right. Well…I just thought I'd drop by for a visit. To see…er…how you're doing and if you're…uh…busy or…if you're…"

"I'm not busy. Well, not really. I was washing dishes."

"Oh."

"Want to come in and help dry them?"

"I'd love to."

"You have to actually come in, John."

"Huh? Oh, right. Right." He stepped inside, brushed against her, and happily succumbed to being kissed thoroughly. Taking a breather, he nodded and glanced at the stairs. "You know, they'll dry quite well on their own."

"They'll have spots all over them…but I think I can handle that, Colonel."

"You have no idea how glad I am to hear that."

"In fact," she said, taking his hand and tugging him toward the stairwell. "I think from now on, we'll forgo china entirely and just use paper plates."

"Another excellent idea."

"Come on, then…I take it you've been exonerated and no MP's are going to burst through my door while we're…er…drying the dishes?"

"I am now, officially, Colonel John Smith again."

"Always were," she said, leading him up a few steps.

"I may even get a promotion, since the Army really wants all of us back to work again…you know…savin' the world's ass, one country at a time…"

"Oh? You mean, like General Smith?"

"I dunno. Maybe. It's all in the air now. We're going to California tomorrow, Joanna," he told her. "Murdock's fiancé just had twins…"

"Twins? How lovely! Is she all right?" She slipped her arms around his neck and touched his hair, as if to make sure he was really there.

"She's excellent, according to Murdock. A boy and a girl – Alec and Brett Murdock. Seven pounds two ounces, six pounds five ounces. Boy has dark hair, the girl's a redhead. Healthy and cute as buttons."

"Is he getting a promotion?"

"_Major_ James Murdock. He doesn't know yet."

Joanna laughed. "Well, that's great. And Lieutenant Peck?"

"_Captain_ Peck. The Army wants our forgiveness, apparently. Bosco is getting a promotion, too, but his disciplinary problems are still a going concern and…well, he'll be a higher-ranking something at some point. Not like he gives a damn. Give him some machine to fix and he's happy, whatever his rank. The extra cash will do us all a lot of good, I think. We have lawyers to pay, anyway…"

She giggled as they reached the upstairs landing. "Well, that's all wonderful. But I think we have other things to occupy us now, hm?"

"You're…uh…not angry at me? I mean…I mean…I sort of took off and wasn't really in contact as much as I should have been…"

"It's okay. Remember – I was an Army wife for years."

He nodded, licking his lips nervously. Joanna Ridley had been widowed for almost four years when she had bought him at the New Years' auction Face had organized, and for the first time in his life, Hannibal Smith had actually done his best to continue a relationship, even though he had kept it from his boys – he hardly needed Face's input on the matter, and he knew he'd get plenty of 'helpful' advice from him, to the point of a full-blown nervous breakdown.

So in spite of frequent, lengthy absences, they had somehow managed to keep things going. It amazed him, however, that she had been so patient. Brief, often furtive, reunions at hotel rooms in various places had been unsatisfactory to him in particular and he had even hardened himself to the possibility of getting an oft-forwarded letter saying she wanted to end it. But the letter never came.

She amazed him. She had even told him she loved him, one night during an all-too-brief visit in between jobs. It amazed him even more when he had said the words back, and that he'd meant it and hadn't looked at another woman in five years. And never would again.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

His fingers clenched around the ring in his jacket pocket. "Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm just…just glad to be here, and that you already know what it's like to be an Army wife."

"Oh. Oh…right. Well, come on!"

* * *

Charissa was cuddling Brett, breathing in that sweet baby scent and touching the cornsilk of the baby's hair. "She's so beautiful. They both are."

"Got maternal stirrings now?" Seaborn asked, sitting down on the couch and gently picking up Alec, who fussed until he got his bottle.

Sosa shrugged. "I dunno. I've always liked babies. I'm just not sure I'd really be a good mom."

"Hey, I didn't either. I'm not entirely sure now, but I'll tell you this, and it's true: there's no more important job you'll ever have than being a parent." She grinned when Brett started fretting, demanding her bottle _now_. "It's a huge responsibility, though. I'm still adjusting to three a.m. feedings and trying to overcome the trauma of diaper changes."

The two young women were sitting in Seaborn's apartment, Sosa occasionally eyeing Seaborn's cat, which was wandering around the living room, looking miffed. Stalin wasn't allowed near the babies, and showed some degree of resentment toward them. Charissa glanced around the apartment, noting the piles of baby paraphernalia, and paled a little. She looked at Seaborn again and couldn't keep from smiling. She had been a scared little rabbit, five years ago, and yet now she sat there, holding her baby son, no fear in her eyes. Instead, she looked confident and competent, even now as she was learning the ropes of motherhood.

Seaborn laughed softly. "I take it you've been assigned the onerous task of picking them up tonight?"

"Yeah." Charissa couldn't keep from blushing at the thought of seeing Face again – she knew it was going to be an uncomfortable reunion, at best. "And they don't know about their promotions?"

"No. Not a thing. I'm not sure how he'll react to such a promotion. He doesn't really care about rank, but the extra money will be nice. Frankly, I'm thinking that until these two are in school, I'll just be a _hausfrau_…of course, I suspect we'll have a few more along the way. Amazing that I'm even thinking such a thing, but I actually do want more kids. Either way, I want to be there, you know? I'd hate to be off chasing down a criminal instead of being there when they take their first steps. Chasing crooks is a good thing to do, but James and my babies will come first. Hands down. I'll let somebody else do the chasing."

"But didn't you slave away to become a Marshal? All that education and hard work, and you'll be a stay-at-home Mom?"

Seaborn shrugged and gently shifted Alec to her cloth-covered shoulder. "Like I said, these kids are more important than any career I'll have. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought for sure I could juggle the career and parenthood, but I know I couldn't do it. If other women can, good for them, but that's not for me. I don't want to miss a minute. This is the best time of my life."

Charissa smiled. "I think that's an excellent attitude."

"Oh, and thanks for the bassinettes!" Seaborn smiled when Alec burped. He rarely spat up, she had noted, but she checked the cloth anything. She shifted him to her lap and stroked his belly, and the two-week old yawned.

"That baby shower was a lot of fun," Charissa laughed. "Have you set a wedding date?"

"Not yet. I guess we put the cart before the horse, didn't we? But…it's funny, James said he'd like to be married in a church. We'll have to explain a bit to the preacher. I'm more nervous about meeting his stepfather and his…brothers and sisters, or whatever I ought to call them."

Charissa smiled. "Face wants to be godfather to one of them. Or both."

"I'll let James pick the godfather. But…would you like to be Brett's godmother? I mean, it's because of you that he and I really started to connect. Consider that favor you asked of me, five years ago, as being paid in full."

"Me?" Charissa was stunned, and then pleased. "Really? That would be so cool." She looked down at Brett, who had fallen asleep, having been fed her bottle first. "I'd love to." She blinked back tears and touched the baby's cheek again, marveling at its softness. "Little Brett Beryl Murdock…my goddaughter."

"Right. Good. I like to get stuff settled and squared away right quick." She offered her little finger to Alec, who started sucking on it as he slept. "I'm sure James will pick Face, though. They're best friends."

"You don't think Face'd have a corrupting influence on a married Murdock?"

"If he is, I'll get my Glock and give him a sound ticking off."

* * *

The four men were, to say the least, skittish. It had been only a few hours since their retrial – such as it was – and exoneration, and none of them wanted to hang around for long. Nonetheless, Agent Lynch had insisted that they wait until Murdock's license was processed through all appropriate channels before he was allowed at the yoke again. B.A., mumbling about flying, nonetheless looked eager and excited to be out of Maryland for good. Hannibal was nervously looking at his watch and wondering what he'd gotten himself into. Face was thinking about what he would say to Charissa and whether he was too badly out of practice. Murdock was pacing around, mumbling to himself about delays and babies.

"What if they don't like me?" he finally asked Smith. "What if they think I'm _too_ weird?"

"They won't think that at all," Hannibal answered soothingly. "They'll love you."

"Siddown, fool. You're makin' me nervous!" B.A. snapped. "And those kids'll like you okay." He caught Face's smirk and shrugged. "Hey, it's true, all right? Kids like Murdock. Mainly 'cause he's a big kid himself."

"I'm not that much of a kid. I made two kids!" Murdock objected, with a tiny trace of smugness in his expression that made the others grin.

"You and Seaborn made two kids," Face corrected him. "And probably a few more before you're through. Sit down and try to relax a little, man."

Murdock plopped down in his seat again and resumed mumbling. He was the first to see Lynch coming toward them and was on his feet in a flash, rushing toward his friend – without the aid of his cane or any trace of a limp – and waylaid him. "You have my license? Can I see it? Where is it? Show it to me!"

"Here, here…geez…" Lynch handed Murdock the papers and the captain perused them greedily, crowing with joy when he saw it was legit.

"I can fly again? I can really fly?"

"Yeah, you can fly. Gentlemen, I hope you enjoyed your stay at the CIA-owned establishment on the beautiful Chesapeake Bay and…you're already running for the tarmac, and yes, you're all very welcome _indeed_…"

Murdock paused just long enough to turn around and give Lynch a jaunty salute before scrambling up the ladder and into the plane. Lynch shook his head and grinned. "See ya for the next disaster, Howlin' Mad."

* * *

"Not a single flip," Face said, clapping B.A. on the shoulder as they disembarked from the Cessna. Murdock was already on the tarmac, bouncing impatiently and looking at his watch. "Give him some credit, Bosco. That flight was as smooth as could be. Hey, calm down, Murdock."

"I can't be calm! I haven't seen Seaborn in…what, four months? Come on, get a move on! Hanni_bal_, get your luggage and move your ass!"

The Colonel raised an eyebrow and lit a cigar, taking his time just to annoy the agitated pilot, and smiled. "I'll let that one pass, Captain, since you're very eager to see your fiancée, but I wouldn't recommend that kind of insubordination again."

"Right, right…just come on!"

Once they had collected their stuff, the four men trotted across the tarmac and were greeted at the terminal gate by Charissa, whose expression was politely welcoming, but guarded. She didn't even smile at Face, who drew himself up and took a deep breath. "Hey, beautiful."

"Lieutenant Peck. Gentlemen…"

"Oh, God…we're not in trouble again are we? Please don't tell me we're in trouble again. If I don't get to see Seaborn and my babies, I swear to God, I'll kill somebody…" Murdock scowled, and Charissa wasn't able to beat back a laugh.

"No, you're not in trouble Ma-…er, Captain Murdock. We have your transportation ready and we just need to make sure you've got all your papers."

"My mother was with DAR and DRT, I've had all my shots, and this license is legit, thank you," he told her, lifting his chin a little. "Now get me in the damned SUV!"

"Right," she said, shuffling through the papers and handing them back. She saluted them all and turned on her heel, leading them across the airport, the men hauling their own luggage and murmuring quietly between themselves. They piled into a waiting SUV and Face sat next to Murdock, eyeing the pilot, who was bouncing up and down like a kid on his way to Disney World.

Face wondered if Charissa was going to speak to him at all, and was starting to get as jittery as Murdock by the time they crossed the Long Beach city line. When the SUV turned into the parking lot and swung into the garage, he was twice as nervous as Murdock. She got out first and waited as they climbed out, not sure if they should leave their luggage or not. Murdock snatched his suitcase – containing a few changes of clothes and clean underwear, a shaving kit and his uniform – and started toward the elevators. He turned around and glared at them all. "Will y'all come _on_?"

* * *

Seaborn heard the doorbell, glanced at Stalin, took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. James was standing there, holding a suitcase in one hand, wearing jeans, a black T-shirt and an anxious expression.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Hannibal wanted to wait behind, so we could…you know…talk a minute."

"Oh. Come on in."

"What the hell is that?" he gasped, pointing at Stalin, who was crouched over his feed bowl, chomping on kibble.

"My cat."

"Oh. You're a cat person?"

"You don't like cats?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I find them devious and hateful, usually, but never mind." He took her hands in his and peered into her eyes. "You're okay? You're really okay? No post-having-babies difficulties? No pain or…or…illness or anything? You're sure you're okay? Tell me the truth!" His expression was anxious and worried, and she touched his cheek, trying to soothe him.

"James, I am as healthy and strong as a little Bedouin mare. My last checkup, the doctor couldn't believe how well I was doing, so calm down and come here." She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him thoroughly. She didn't even hear Face and Hannibal as they came through the door, and she ignored B.A.'s squawk of alarm at the sight of the cat, and barely took note at all of Face starting to sneeze due to his allergy against cats. They were still kissing when Charissa came in.

"Geez, you two, get a room!" Face said, exasperated, between sneezes. "That's the biggest cat I've ever seen. What's his name?"

"Stalin," Charissa told him. Hannibal looked horrified. B.A. had to fight his first instinct to jump out the window, because he was even more terrified of cats than he was of flying. Not that he intended to tell anybody about that.

"Well, at least you're speaking to…to…ah…ah…ahhh…phwoosh!" Face almost knocked himself over with a mighty sneeze and had to sit down. Stalin glared at them all before continuing with his meal.

"I don't know what to say!" Charissa bleated, letting her nervousness loose. "I'm a wreck here. The only person who never got nervous was Seaborn!"

Murdock came up for air then. "Where're the babies?" he asked his fiancée.

"C'mon. They're very eager to meet their Daddy." She took his hand and led him into what had once been her office and was now the nursery, and left the others in the living room, staring wild-eyed at the cat and not knowing what to do with themselves.


	30. Hiccups and Marguerites

Well, it's finally over! Hope it's not too sappy or anything. So far as the wedding 'sermon' goes, well, it's how I personally feel about marriage, even though I'm not married. :)

* * *

"They're so small!"

Seaborn and Murdock were leaning over the crib railings, looking down at the twins as they slept.

"They tend to be kind of miniaturized for a while. Then they get kind of our size or somewhat as they age. Right now, we can put 'em in our pockets and feed 'em M&M's."

He lightly cuffed her arm, and she giggled softly.

"I can't believe we're parents," he said. "Who'd'a thunk it?"

Seaborn snuggled against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him. "Hummin'birds and crazy people havin' babies…both are proof that God has a sense of humor."

"I think everybody's crazy," she said. "Some more than others, yeah, and they're not locked up in mental hospitals, James. They're elected to public office instead."

"Where they can be watched, considering that most politicians are such drooling cretins they couldn't get real jobs," he nodded. Alec's eyes suddenly opened and he stared up at them, and even though Murdock knew his son couldn't really see him clearly, he could hear his voice. "Hey there, little soldier."

"It's funny, though, isn't it? We agree on almost everything, and approach things in much the same way, but we don't have anything in common at all."

"Not a thing." He stroked Alec's cheek with his finger, and the baby turned his head, mouth working. "Well…a coupla things, definitely. Oh…I think he wants his baba!"

"Well…we did have relatively _stable_ childhoods," Seaborn pointed out. She gently picked Alec up and took a careful look at Brett, but the girl was sleeping soundly. "Our parents loved us and provided for us, and even though my father didn't know diddly about bein' a daddy, he was a good _father_ – he taught me to how to survive. And Jack sounds like he was a good father to you…"

"Your father left you alone in the woods to fend for yourself…" Murdock took a seat in the rocking chair beside Seaborn's and watched as she persuaded Alec to take his bottle. The baby was soon sucking away, rather noisily.

"You think that was a bad thing to do, I take it."

"I dunno. I don't know that I could do that to my kids. I want them to be independent, yeah, but at _eight_? No. Eighteen, yeah. I'll leave 'em in the woods then, if they're up for it, but…"

She shrugged. "I came out of it okay. I didn't _enjoy_ it, but I lived through it. All I saw was a raccoon and a skunk. Heard some spooky noises, but I don't recall being scared. It's weird – I don't get scared any more. I wasn't even really scared when I went into labor. A bit…well…_very _concerned, but thank God, it was brief. Just a few hours and _pop_, out they came. It hurt like the dickens, that's for sure."

"I think I'll take on the being scared bit," Murdock told her. "I was scared for you. Worried sick – I think I threw up a little."

"Did y'all have a big party?"

"Fifteen sleepy, vaguely grumpy CIA spooks in the living room, wishing they had coffee instead of brandy. Face turned up the radio and all he could find, at five in the morning, was Ag reports. We now know the price of a bush hog in Maryland on April the eleventh."

"Oh, well, that's useful information!" she laughed. Alec squawked in protest – his bottle was empty. "Get Brett – she's awake."

"Oh…right." Murdock nervously picked his daughter, knowing to support her head, and studied her face, amazed. She had his mother's eyes and nose, he thought, remembering his photograph of his parents. He walked back to his chair and gingerly sank back into the seat, and took the bottle from Seaborn.

"At first, she really didn't like her formula, but the pediatrician recommended adding just a drop of vanilla to make it taste less _awful_ – and it does taste terrible, I should tell you – and she took to it like a hen on a June bug. She's gaining weight faster than Alec."

Murdock nodded. "I was a picky baby, too, according to legend." He followed Seaborn's example and brushed Brett's cheek, and soon the baby was busily consuming the vanilla-flavored contents of her bottle. "Look at her eyelashes!"

"Yes. Long and curly. Like yours."

"Oh…yeah. I just have to flutter 'em at ya and you'll be pregnant again."

Seaborn smiled. "About that…I do want to have more babies."

He stared at her, wide-eyed. "Really? After all this?"

"Yeah. Even after I came 'round from the epi and wasn't so drunk and goofy any more, I still wanted to have a few more, while I'm young and able. What do you think?"

"I'd better put a ring on your finger before we get started on the next one."

"I was hoping you'd say that!" she laughed. "When? Where?"

"I'll find a place. Non-denominational." Brett was blowing bubbles, and he wiped them away, chastising her softly. "And you know I want a preacher and a _brief_ sermon…no use gettin' married in a church if you can't stand there and listen to the gentleman do his thing."

"Ah yes…_respect yourself_," she nodded. "An excellent plan, I think. Just tell me where to be and I'll the one up front, wearing the off-white dress."

Murdock shifted Brett to his shoulder, and she rewarded his efforts by throwing up all over him. He didn't mind.

* * *

Face and Charissa had disappeared, likely to a hotel room. Hannibal was also gone. B.A. was the only one remaining, sitting on Seaborn's couch, keeping an eye open for the cat but otherwise reading through a copy of _Bride's_ magazine.

It amazed him, to see so much detailed discussion over weddings. Plus tons and tons of photographs of brides – and occasionally, grooms, who were clearly only an accessory to the proceedings – standing around looking either happy or anxious, depending on the price of the wedding gown. There were lengthy articles on ring selections, bridal tiaras, choosing flower girls ("Does she bite? Is she potty trained?"), and a horrifying thing called 'destination weddings', where groups of hundreds of people could be flown to far-flung places ("Want a Get-Away Wedding? Try the Seychelles!") for the ceremony that would end up breaking the father of the bride for life.

Needless to say, it was fascinating. There were whole articles on silks and satins, antique ivory buttons, lace veils, orange blossoms (When are they in season? Do flower shops always have them available?) and should the bride wear her grandmother's gown, even though it made her look more like the wedding cake? What sorts of traditions must come into play? Bride and groom have been shacking up for years– should she still wear white and not expect a few snickers from the pews? Should a groom's cake be involved, even outside the South? Pre-nups were also discussed in a short, tense article that gave B.A. a headache. What was the point of getting married, he thought, if you were already planning your divorce?

B.A. kept thinking about Vanessa, who he _never_ let himself think about any more, because it still burned more than he cared to admit, and wondered where she was and if she still thought about him, which he wondered about constantly in spite of his vow to not think about her any more. She had been _devoutly_ religious, which he didn't mind, but he had certainly got nervous when she had informed him that she wasn't sleeping with him without a ring on her finger and him saying 'I do' in her church, in front of her preacher, her nine brothers (all of whom were cops) and her father, who had been a drill sergeant in the Marines and had a life-long fascination with firearms. B.A. was a large, strong man, but he wasn't _stupid_. He knew the lay of the land the second he met them all. Vanessa had been a third-grade schoolteacher, for God's sake, and she was just as tough as her father and siblings – you had to be to deal with kids that age. No shrinking violet there, and she had stood her ground when the subject of _sex_ came up.

And why should she change her mind? Like he'd ask a woman to give up her faith and her values for _him_? What kind of jackass would he be then? Like he was all that special. By now, she had probably married somebody else, and good for her. He was probably also a cop, and like her father, a pillar of the church and never swore or drank or got really angry unless he saw somebody hurting somebody else. Good for her. Guy had better realize how lucky he is, or B.A. figured he'd kill him.

He threw the magazine aside and hit the cat – accidentally, he told himself, and accepted the cat's indignant glare.

Not once had he told any of the others about Vanessa. Not even Hannibal knew about her. B.A. was firmly in the 'don't ask, don't tell' camp, regarding his personal relationships with women. He kept away from them, and even though Face and even occasionally Murdock – of all people – had looked at him askance about it, he didn't talk about it and he didn't go tomcatting, and they didn't ask him any questions, either. If they thought he was a monk, so be it. Eight years now, and he hadn't even been on a damned _date_, all because of a one-hundred-twenty-pound girl in Detroit who loved Jesus and children and wouldn't compromise.

_I have been faithful to thee, Cynara…in my fashion_…

Good Lord, Face would laugh himself sick if he knew B.A. knew any poetry at all. Much less Ernest freaking Dowson. He would blame his mother for it. She had done more than bonk him upside the head for bad behavior – she had drilled literature into him from the cradle, along with the Scriptures, and a great deal of art and music – he could still tap out a bit of Chopin on the piano when called upon. It had been embarrassing enough when B.A. had corrected Face one night, after they had recovered some stolen art from some terrorist in Lebanon, who had mistaken a Chagall for a Cezanne. Murdock had stared at him in awed silence – first time the fool had been quiet for most of the day, in fact, and then started asking him what he thought of Picasso's blue period, and did he think Seurat's _Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte _was pure genius or what? B.A. had finally admitted that indeed, Seurat was a genius and to please for God's sake shut up.

Vanessa had loved art, too. She had dragged him to a museum once, and he had actually _enjoyed_ it. Particularly Cezanne…but mainly, he had enjoyed just being with her. Listening to her soft, quiet voice and observing her gentle ways and her beautiful smile. She never raised her voice for anything besides singing hymns, and she loved to laugh…

_Get over it_. He glanced at the door to the nursery and sighed miserably. Murdock had found his woman, and had two little babies to care about. He had caught Hannibal talking on the phone to that Joanna woman from back in Virginia that afternoon, just as they were preparing to leave, and the word 'wedding' had been said. Face was off diddling Charissa, as they had clearly managed to have an adult (not X-rated, but grown-up this time) conversation and cleared the air for now. How long that would last, B.A. hadn't a clue, but he wished them well.

So here he sat, in Seaborn's living room, ready to climb the curtains if Stalin the cat came any closer, pining away for a woman he hadn't seen in eight years and wishing he wasn't such a damned foo-…er, _coward_. He was just getting sentimental. Misty-eyed and goopy, what with babies and upcoming weddings. That was it.

Murdock suddenly emerged from the nursery, carrying one of the babies. B.A. figured it was the girl, because the kid was wrapped in a pink blanket. "Hey!" Murdock grinned happily at him.

"Hey, fool."

"Where'd ever'body go?" Murdock asked, looking around, brow furrowed.

"They left. Hannibal's prob'ly talkin' to that woman in Virginia, and Face and Charissa are shacked up in a hotel room somewhere, and I kinda doubt they're talking about the economy." B.A. put his head back on the cushion and sighed, still feeling miserable.

"Ah." Murdock walked over and without comment handed the baby to B.A. "There y'are, m'lord."

"Hey, wait…oh…" B.A. was head over heels in a nanosecond and smiled down at Brett. "She's got red hair!"

"Yeah." Murdock plopped down beside him and shooed Stalin away. "An' green eyes, like me, and she's got my mother's mouth and nose, and Seaborn's hair and temper."

"Right." B.A. touched Brett's cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. Misty-eyed and goopy, definitely.

"So…we got our lives back, big guy. Our ranks and ever'thing. No more runnin', no more hidin'…well, at least not from the law, huh?"

B.A. gave him a narrow look. "What you talkin' 'bout, fool?"

"Well, from what you mumble in your sleep of many a night, I think her name is…lemme see if I can remember…" He looked around in the air, as if expecting the molecules to flash the name to him. "Started with a V, I think, or was it an B?"

"Don't you start, man!" B.A. remembered that Murdock had one bad ear, but his good ear was the envy of any hawk.

"Her name was Vanessa!" the pilot crowed happily.

Was this dude a freaking mind-reader? Must be the damned drugs, B.A. thought, knowing he was blushing.

"Yes, I do read minds sometimes! How'd ya know, dude? Second sight runs in my family, on my granny's side. You say her name in your sleep, so that kinda clued me in, but I promise, I never said nothin' to Face about it, 'cause he'd never've dropped it. I heard ya talkin' to her sometimes – hey, we've shared bunks for years, and slept back to back in foxholes and the like, and I have insomnia up the wazoo, so I'm used to it, and here's a newsflash, big guy – it's okay. She must be quite a girl, too, to make you melt like an ice cream cone in the sun. When ya gonna call her?"

"Drop it…crazy fool…" B.A. sputtered. Brett made a face at him.

"Oh, come on, B.A. What's the one thing we hope for and fight for and pray for, all our lives, from the moment we're born to the moment we die? To love and to be loved. You call me a fool, but I ain't gonna give it up. I'll walk 'cross hell and half of Texas for Seaborn and these kids, and I'll drain my last drop of blood for 'em, too, and you're callin' _me_ a fool? You got leave now, right? The Army's bein' real generous to us, and if I was you, I'd take advantage of such _graciousness_ and high-tail it home and go pound on her door or throw rocks at her window – not big rocks, that causes damage and visits from the police – until she'll talk to you. Hey, if a nutjob like me has enough sense to hunt down the woman he wants after she vanishes into thin air, you surely can, too."

B.A. looked down at Brett, who was staring up at him, her eyes the same green as her father's, and even at just two weeks, just as full of mischief and merriment. Or maybe that was just his imagination. He glared back at Murdock, who grinned at him and bounced back to his feet. "Seaborn's gettin' ready for bed. You can go catch a plane tonight, if you're so inclined. I'll tell Hannibal, so you won't be AWOL."

Murdock gingerly took his daughter back from B.A., and waved her tiny hand at him. "Brett says g'night and Godspeed. I'm goin' to bed. Be back here in two weeks, by the way – we're gettin' married on May the twenty-first – we've got our Preak on, man! We haven't decided on where yet, but we'll tell ya."

With that, Murdock went back into the nursery. A few moments later, he and Seaborn emerged and went into her bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar, so they could hear the babies. B.A. got up, sidestepped the cat, breathed in the scent of Murdock's home and family, and went out into the night and its possibilities.

* * *

"It was just so…so adorable…" Murdock said, dropping his head into his hands and bursting into tears again.

Face sat down opposite his friend and started to offer him a glass of bourbon, but decided that maybe alcohol wouldn't mix so well with the poor guy's meds. He sat back and studied Murdock, who had gone out for a simple walk and had come back in tears.

"What was so adorable?" Face asked him at last.

"I saw…I saw…"

"One of the Olsen twins? Yes, yes, big heads, teeny little bodies…very adorable, I guess…if you're into that…"

"No, no…" Murdock shook his head, hands still over his face. "I saw…I saw…a puppy."

Hannibal came in then, carrying a glass of brandy and a cigar. He came to a dead halt, blinking, when he saw Murdock sobbing on the couch and Face looking bewildered.

"What did you do to him?" Hannibal barked.

"I didn't do anything!" Face squawked.

"Why's he crying then?"

"He saw a puppy!"

Between sobs, Murdock managed to get out "It was a fuzzy little black puppy. He was on his little leash…sitting outside a café…"

* * *

"Are you finished with the waterworks?" Seaborn asked, climbing into bed, wearing his T-shirt. She put her head on Murdock's chest and listened to his heartbeat.

"It was a blip. I'm just a bit emotional." He swallowed. "And nervous. It's not fair, you being so calm."

"Well, I just don't get nervous about stuff any more. I mean, I admit I'm a little…jittery, but I'm not nervous. And one of us should be calm, in case the other faints at the altar or something."

He hugged her. "Day after tomorrow, we'll be Major and Mrs. James Murdock."

"Yep." She kissed his cheek. "I can barely wait."

"The preacher looked like he wanted to tell us that we ought to've waited."

"Ah well," she shrugged. "What's done is done, and he was a very nice man."

"Yeah, he was." He curled a lock of her red hair around his finger. "I liked him – he reminded me of an elderly Clint Eastwood. Of course, Clint is technically elderly, but I don't think anybody'd be stupid enough to say so to his face. His knuckles might crack while he shoots us, but he'd hit his mark just the same."

"Probably. Oh, by the way, what are you going to do tomorrow? We're not supposed to see each other until the wedding, y'know?"

"I dunno. Face wants to throw me a bachelor party, but I'm not sure about that. B.A. just got back, and he was carrying a tiny little creature with him…her name's Vanessa…and I get the feeling he won't be too keen on misbehaving with her around."

"B.A. has a girlfriend? Now I've got to meet her! I'll bet she weighs all of a hundred pounds and has him wrapped around her little finger."

"One-twenty, actually, and yeah, she's got him hooked and is just reelin' him in."

"What is it about big men ending up with tiny little women?" Seaborn asked, snuggling into his arms. "You're six feet tall, and I'm about five-five. Hannibal and Joanna are pretty well matched, though, and so are Face and Charissa, height-wise."

"Beats me." Murdock yawned. "Must be a chemical thing."

* * *

"Okay, we take a right turn _here_ and…oh, there it is!" Charissa pointed at the simple little white-washed woodframe church building and smiled. A marquee outside read 'Are You Tough Enough for Jesus?' and she figured that if anybody was, it would be members of the A-Team. "Okay, Face…Face, would you concentrate already? We're still rolling!" The church was shaded by huge oak trees and red and pink-blooming crepe myrtles, giving it a romantic and peaceful vibe.

"I'm concentrating!" The SUV lurched to a stop. "Murdock…Murdock, how're ya doin' back there?" His fingers were gripping the wheel so hard that he had a hard time letting go of it. It had been a long, tense drive up from Long Beach, with them getting hopelessly lost at one point. Murdock and B.A., in the back, had bickered back and forth and broke the GPS in their futile attempts to make it work properly ("North is _North_, dammit! When did North ever become South? Huh? Tell me that, ya damned Yankee!"). Four members of the United States Army and not one of them could navigate their way to this little town without having to stop and ask directions – Charissa being shoved out to do the asking – four times.

The pilot leaned in between them, grinning happily. "I'm peachy with a side of keen! C'mon!" He scrambled out of the SUV, followed by B.A. The car behind them, containing Hannibal, Kris, Joanna and Vanessa, stopped and they all got out, pausing to look at the church building.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" Vanessa said. "Just a nice, simple little church in the country." She gave B.A. a smile, and he blushed again. He had been blushing – and humming to himself and generally being forgetful and slightly dippy – all week. His teammates found it amusing, but quietly, and only when he was out of earshot.

Kris – the matron of honor - Vanessa, Joanna and Charissa were wearing simple yellow dresses – the color of daisies – and would be carrying bouquets of pretty yellow and white marguerites and roses. Seaborn was back at the preacher's house, getting ready, and Charissa had to drive back to collect her. She got behind the wheel, with Kris riding shotgun, glared at Face and told him to _behave_ before driving off to find the preacher's house.

"Well, what do we do now?" Hannibal asked. He started to light a cigar, but a warning look from Joanna made him put it away. She was trying to get him to quit smoking, with limited success so far.

"We…uh…I dunno…" Murdock looked around. "Let's climb the oak trees!"

"No! You'll ruin your uniform!" Face said, exasperated.

Murdock straightened and preened a little. The uniform did look good on him – he was covered with medals and bars, as were Face, B.A. and Hannibal. He had refused to wear his beret, however, because he said it made him look too much like Harry Dean Stanton.

Face had been only vaguely miffed that he hadn't been asked to be the best man, but he knew that if it hadn't been for Hannibal's faith in the pilot, they wouldn't even be here now. He looked around the church grounds, unable to keep from admiring the flowering myrtles.

"You don't see many myrtles in California," Murdock commented. "We got 'em all over the place back home."

"Yeah. Oh…hey, is that your dad?" Face gestured toward the black car coming toward them, and Murdock stiffened, suddenly nervous again.

"Yeah."

The car stopped and Murdock stood still, waiting as Jack and Marie got out and walked to him.

"Son, it's so good to see you again." Jack's smile was warm and generous, and he embraced Murdock, hugging him so tightly he looked like he might start crying. Marie hugged him in turn, and introductions were made all around. "You're getting married…and where are my grandchildren?"

"They're at the preacher's house," Murdock explained. "They'll be here shortly."

"Your brothers and sisters are on their way," Jack said. "You've got family comin' from all over, y'know. Your youngest sister was in Tanzania but she took three red eye flights to get here – got in this morning at three o'clock and collapsed on the couch at our hotel. They're all looking forward to seeing you again, you know. We're all so happy for you, son." Jack hugged Murdock again, and the younger man rested his chin on his father's shoulder and didn't fight off the tears this time, even though there wasn't a puppy within ten miles of the church.

* * *

Seaborn, decked out in a simple off-white bridal gown, was feeding Alec his bottle and jiggling Brett's bassinette as the baby fussed. Charissa looked at the clock and took a deep breath. Kris, looking decidedly calmer, finally gestured to Seaborn and pointed at the clock. The preacher's wife – a steady, good-humored woman named Lily – shook her head. "Babies don't know what time it is, Captain Sosa. They just know it's time to eat. I had four of 'em – I learned fast that schedules had to fly out the window when it came to them."

"Yeah, but we're gonna be _late_!"

"Stop worrying," Seaborn said. "Okay, Alec. All done. Mrs. Porter, would you mind burping him? Here's the cloth…"

Lily took the baby, cooing at him, and patted his back while Seaborn picked up Brett. "Okay, you little monster, here's your baba." She sat down again, relaxing, and waited patiently as her daughter ate. "I always have to wait on her, because if she eats too fast, she gets colicky," she told Kris. "Nice and slow with this one. Alec can guzzle down his chow in a matter of minutes and he's hunky-dory."

"You'd think twins would be more alike," Charissa said, sounding slightly annoyed. It was time to go, and they were acting like this was a casual day in the country!

Kris snickered. "You've got a lot to learn about babies, Captain. _A lot_."

* * *

"Okay, so who's giving the bride away?" was Jack's logical question. No one had even thought of it. He watched his son pace around the room, and tried to find some kind of soothing topic of conversation.

"I have no idea…her father died when she was fifteen…maybe you could do it!"

"Me? I've never even met her!"

"So? Just go find 'em and ask!"

Kris answered the door and was momentarily confused at the sight of the man standing there. He was tall and fit, with graying dark hair and mischievous green eyes, and it took her a moment to connect the dots – this guy _had_ to be related to Murdock.

"Hi…I'm Jack…"

"Keene? You're Murdock's dad?"

"Yes. I mean…well, yes, I'm his cousin, but…I raised him…yes, I'm his dad."

"Oh! Cool! I guess you're wanting to meet Seaborn and the babies…come in!" Kris stepped aside and admitted him to the room. Seaborn was checking herself in the mirror, and Jack remembered how picky his son had been about girls, years ago. If she lacked class, he wasn't interested. This girl was not only beautiful, but she clearly had class coming out of her ears. He glanced at the pair of portable bassinettes, and she turned around.

Her bridal gown was simple – a soft, off-white, nearly pearl gray, with a ballerina hem, and she was wearing matching low heels, and Jack noted that she was wearing an engagement ring made from a pull-tab with little piece of glass glued to it. Only James could make a ring like that, he thought.

"Hi," Seaborn said. "I take it you're James's father?"

"Yes. And you're about to be his wife."

"Yes." She nodded, eyes just a little wary. "These are our babies…" She gestured toward the bassinettes. "Alec and Brett."

Jack peered down at the two babies and couldn't keep from grinning widely. "Wait'll Marie sees this…I've got my two other sons pinning her to a pew right now. She adores babies." Jack looked at her. "Can I hold one of them?"

"Sure you can."

He picked up Brett first, and the baby squirmed and gurgled but was otherwise calm. "Brett, hm? Good name for a red-headed baby girl."

She laughed. "I had a friend, back in the Army, who was not only red-headed but cross-eyed, when she was born. Her grandparents drove all the way from Texas to Kentucky to see her, and when they got there, all the old man said was 'Ain't nothin' but a little ol' red-headed, gotch-eyed baby' and they got back in the car and drove back home."

"Well, I won't be driving back to Texas any time soon – Marie and I would both love to keep the babies while you and James go on your honeymoon…"

"Such as it'll be," she grinned. "I think both of us will mainly just catch up on years of lost sleep." Seaborn wasn't about to mention the nocturnal experiments she and James had tried out in the past two weeks, in lieu of actual sex. "And we would love it if y'all'd keep 'em. They need to know their Grandpa and Granny."

Jack grinned down at his granddaughter. "God, she looks so much like Louise. It's almost scary – same green eyes, same cheekbones…James looks like her, too. She had a light around her, you know? She wasn't perfect – Lord, that woman had a temper on her – but she had a bit of the angels in her."

"James told me a little about her. That it was kind of a Ruth and Boaz romance between you two."

Jack laughed, and Brett blew bubbles. "Right. I had known her for years, actually – only she never noticed me. It was his father she was interested in – my cousin – and boy, was I jealous, but she had made her choice. And then he died while I was away in California, and when I got back there she was, six months pregnant and workin' in the cotton fields. I was _horrified_. Insisted she be watched over at all times, and then I got her to let me put her in a house on the ranch, and after James was born, I started hangin' around, hoping she'd warm up to me. She did, finally." He smiled down at Brett. "You look like your grandmother, little chica," he said. "Gonna be the prettiest girl in the county, I'll wager."

Kris came back in and pointed at her watch. "It's almost time."

Seaborn nodded – and hiccupped.

"Hm?" Kris raised an eyebrow.

"I…[hic]…have…[hic]…hiccup…[hic]…hiccups!"

"Well, get rid of them!" Kris said, gently taking Brett from Jack and putting her back into her bassinette. "Like…now!"

"I can't!" Seaborn squeaked, eyes widening. "Oh my [hic] God! I can't be [hic] hiccup [hic] hiccupping during my [hic] wedding [hic]!"

Charissa came bustling back in, looking agitated and carrying her bouquet of roses and marguerites. She had decided that for once, she didn't look like a swamp frog, as she had in all the other bridesmaids dresses she had worn in the past. Most brides she had known had gone all out to make her attendants look as awful as possible, so she would look her best on Her Special Day, but she had to give Seaborn credit. The dresses looked fab.

"She has hiccups!" Kris told the captain, whose eyebrows lifted.

"Really?" For some reason, that made Charissa feel better. Finally, the girl was showing signs of nerves!

"I can't [hic] get rid [hic] of them!" Seaborn wailed, rubbing her earlobes, then holding her breath, until another hiccup made her jerk. "Oh, dear [hic] God…James [hic] will [hic] freak [hic] out!"

"I kinda doubt he'll freak out," Charissa said. "He didn't even really freak out when he found out you were pregnant, did he? I mean, what did he do then?"

"He dragged me upstairs and we [hic]…er…" She glanced at Jack, who was starting to look like he was about to explode with laughter. "We…[hic] …uh…[hic]…played Scrabble."

"Like hell you did!" Jack said, and had to sit down before he pitched over onto his face. "James's mother did this on the day I married _her_!"

* * *

Murdock, with Face, Hannibal and B.A. standing up beside him at the altar, all watched with growing concern as Seaborn hiccupped her way up the aisle, on Jack's arm, her bridesmaids swishing up, barely concealed laughter on their faces. Mrs. Porter and Marie, carrying a baby each, sat down in the back and watched the proceedings with amusement. The preacher – who indeed bore a striking resemblance to Clint Eastwood but didn't look prone to violence - stood up and faced the bride as she hiccupped her way to a stop.

"Who gives this woman to be wed?" he asked.

"I do," Jack said, and handed Seaborn over to Murdock, who didn't look too nervous, but his brow furrowed when he heard Seaborn hiccup again.

Porter opened his Bible, and Seaborn hiccupped again. He glanced at her, one eyebrow lifting.

"Marriage is an institution made of God, in the Garden, long before the establishment of what we call 'religion'," he said, still studying Seaborn, who continued hiccupping. "It is the very foundation of civilization, for without it, there would be no family, nothing resembling love or commitment, and no children…would you like a glass of water?"

"No [hic], thank you [hic]," Seaborn shook her head. Murdock, staring straight ahead, only gave her a sidelong glance, and she missed the spark of mischief in his eyes.

"It is not a state to be entered into lightly," Porter continued. "It is to be approached with reverence of spirit and sobriety of mind." He gave Seaborn another narrow look when she hiccupped again, more loudly this time. Charissa remembered to get the bouquet, and quickly snatched it away from Seaborn, who looked relieved to be shet of it, and hiccupped her thanks. "I take it the both of you are here today in such a state of reverence and…sobriety." He cleared his throat. "Our Lord chose a wedding – a time of celebration and feasting, and of joy at the union of a man and a woman for their lives on this earth, working together as one flesh – to perform His first miracle…" Seaborn hiccupped again, and Porter caught Murdock's eyes lifting toward the ceiling, apparently praying, even though the younger man's mouth was twitching.

"Our collective image of the Lord is of a somber, sorrowful man, largely due to paintings and drawings of people who never actually saw Him. But I tend to picture Jesus as a person who, while a Man of Sorrows, knowing of the sacrifice He was going to make, still laughed and joked with His friends, and who smiled often and had a sense of humor. Little children willingly went to Him, and it would be hard to imagine children running to a dour, unhappy, forbidding man." He caught Murdock's eye, and almost started laughing. "I am sure that when He attended that wedding in Cana, He laughed and danced with the celebrants. He congratulated the bride and the groom, and wished them as much happiness as we do wish these two young people here today, who prepare to be united together for the remainder of their lives and for whatever lies ahead. Marriage is not easy. It involves two people, after all, and they will have to live under the same roof. I have been married for forty years, now, and can assure you that my wife could write a book on how I _eat_." There was a soft ripple of laughter from the congregation, particularly from the older married couples, who were nodding in agreement. "You will annoy each other. You will argue. You will have conflict. But you will also laugh together, and cry together, and have good times and bad times…_together_. Marriage isn't for the faint-hearted. It is not for the weak-willed. It is a serious, lifelong commitment. It's forever and always, amen. It is the most important thing you'll ever do together. It will come before your parents, your friends, and even your children."

Seaborn hiccupped again – twice – and Hannibal cleared his throat. Porter glanced at him, then returned his steady blue-grey gaze to Seaborn and Murdock.

"Where is the ring?" he finally asked.

Face fumbled in his pockets and finally handed the ring to Murdock, who gave him a hard look, and he turned back to face Seaborn, who hiccupped prettily and gave him her hand.

"State your name," the preacher said to Murdock.

"I, Major Wiggly McHornypants…"

Seaborn's eyes widened, and she put her hand over her mouth, eyes brimming with tears of laughter, her hiccups eradicated, a high-pitched giggle erupting from her. The congregation snickered, and Hannibal, Face and B.A. all burst into laughter. Murdock, sober as a judge, continued to stare right into Seaborn's eyes, even as she laughed. The preacher rolled his eyes and sighed, waiting for the laughter to finally ebb away.

"Your _name_, son."

"I, Major James Matthew Murdock…do take thee, Seaborn Aphrodite Buchanan…to be my lawfully wedded wife, to love, honor and cherish, and keep myself only unto you, from this day forward, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, for all the days of my life, until only by death are we parted." He slipped the ring onto Seaborn's finger, and she smiled down at the little gold band, with the tiny diamond. It had been his mother's wedding ring, mailed to Murdock from Texas only a few days before, and fitted for Seaborn.

"State your _name_, please," the preacher said to Seaborn, giving her a warning look.

She smiled. "I, Seaborn Aphrodite Buchanan, do take thee, James Matthew Murdock, to be my lawfully wedded husband, from this day forward, to love, honor, and obey, and to keep myself only unto you…wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts you and me…for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, all the days of my life." She slipped her father's old silver ring, bearing a tiny Buchanan family crest, on his finger.

Porter raised his voice a little. "And so these two people have pledged their lives to each other, in the name of the Lord and in His presence and in the presence of this congregation of witnesses. And so, by the authority vested in me, by the Lord God Almighty, the Judge of all Mankind, and by the state of California, I do declare this man and this woman to be wedded together, man and wife, and may God _bless_ this union…and may they have many, many years of laughter…together! Amen!"

* * *

"Who the hell decided to hire a bagpiper?" Charissa yelled at Hannibal.

"I don't know. I think we'll blame Face!"

"I think I'm gonna be deaf before this is over!" B.A. shouted.

The bagpiper, having gone through the traditional Buchanan family battle tunes and marches, had moved into pop songs of the early eighties and was making his way into the latest hits. Murdock, made of sterner stuff until the champagne started taking effect, had suggested _Lifting the Cattle_, which the piper played three times, but now he was trying to play _Sexy Back_, with Murdock doing some pretty nifty moves in spite of his stiff knee as he sang along. The piper was blowing hard, though, and no one was surprised when the poor man finally went down, bagpipes wheezing.

"Ladies and gentlemen…we have a piper down. Repeat, we have a piper dooon…" Murdock said into the microphone, in a perfect Highland Scots accent. Seaborn, worn out from the dancing, was seated at the bridal table with her new parents-in-law and what seemed like a score of her husband's siblings. She couldn't remember their names, but it didn't matter: they had all drunk so much so far they couldn't remember theirs either. Murdock's sister, a lovely young woman with blonde hair and mischievous 'Murdock green' eyes, had arrived at three that morning from Tanzania, was finally starting to feel the effects of jetlag and alcohol and had her elbow in the butter.

After having tended to the piper – ordering draughts of coffee and brandy – Murdock made his way to Seaborn's side and plopped down beside her. "And that, dear lassie, is how the Murdocks throw a wedding."

"Your cure for hiccups is also destined for legendary status," she said, with some asperity. "Wiggly McHornypants indeed."

"Hey, how'd'ya think we ended up with our two little anklebiters? Where are they, by the way?"

"Your stepmother has one of them, and the preacher's wife has the other. They may refuse to surrender them."

"Ah…right." He leaned back and exhaled, undoing his tie. "My parents have 'em 'til we come back home next week. Where are we going?"

"Anywhere you can fly us," she said, sighing and resting her head on his shoulder, his arm circling around her waist.

"Hey, crazy man, we're leavin'," B.A. said, giving Murdock's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "Have fun on your honeymoon."

Murdock managed to stand up and accepted B.A.'s embrace, then bowed low over Vanessa's hand, making her laugh. "Bosco said y'all were crazy," she said. "Of course, I figured y'all'd also be fun. Mrs. Murdock," she said, grinning at Seaborn, who giggled tiredly.

"Oh, oh…I've got to throw the bouquet!" she said, snatching up the bunch of roses and marguerites. "All the single ladies…put your hands _up_ and gather in a drunken mob over yonder," she said, pointing to the middle of dancefloor. Twinkling lights and Japanese lanterns bounced in the cool evening breeze, and the moon was hanging low in the sky, providing enough light one could read by it. She waved the bouquet in the air, and about a dozen women scrabbled into position, shoving each other. Charissa, dragged over by Kris and cruelly abandoned, tried to duck out of the way when Seaborn turned and threw the flowers over her head, but her efforts at avoiding the situation were to no avail – the bouquet landed on her head, bounced – leaving a scattering of petals in her hair - and she caught it in her hands, forgetting to drop it. She saw Face, who was kibitzing with Jack and Marie, and caught his smirk.

"All right," Murdock said. "I think we've prevailed upon the preacher's hospitality enough," he said, bowing toward the preacher and his wife, both of whom looked tired but cheerful. "Everybody clean up your own mess, put the dishes in the pans, tip the waiters, and then…go home!"

"Wait a minute…wait, wait…" Hannibal lifted his glass. "Face and I both have to give proper speeches here…"

"Oh, dear God…" Murdock muttered, sitting down.

"No, no, we'll keep it clean, we promise…except for the part about those sisters we met in Barbados," Face said, grinning as he stood up. "Okay. So…uh…everybody knows that Murdock and I are best friends – have been for years. I mean, a guy sets your arm on fire, it's either a lifelong friendship or…well, not. But anyway, Murdock here is my brother. And if there's anybody out there who deserves to be happy, it's him. So let's raise our glasses to the groom – and I'm really serious when I say this, buddy – I know that if I'm ever in trouble, or in jail, or lost every penny in a poker game and need a ride home, I know I can call you at three in the morning and you'll come get me. And I'd do the same for you. To James Murdock, and to his lovely little hellcat of a bride, Seaborn!"

"So long as he has Seaborn's permission, of course," someone called, to everyone's laughter.

"He won't need my permission," Seaborn said, standing up and giving Face a peck on the cheek. The conman actually blushed. "This is the same man who threatened to kill me and hide my body if I ever hurt James, and I still take that under advisement! I believe he said that dogs wouldn't be able to find my body."

"I did say that, didn't I?" Face said, grinning. "And now, we have a little sister in our team, and two little future team members in Brett and Alec. I've already bought them some fatigues, by the way." Face raised his glass. "All joking aside, though, Murdock. We love you and we're happy for you. God bless you, man…even more, every day." Everyone else raised their glasses as well.

Hannibal stood up then. "I'll keep this short, because we're all a bit pissed…er, I mean…a little tipsy? Right. Anyway. James, you're really like a son to me – I'm sure your dad here appreciates that sentiment. All of you are – you'll always be my boys, my sons. I never got to have any kids, but when I finally got my team together I knew we were all a family. And as much as we probably will deny it, I suspect our glory days are past us now, but we're still a family, and as Face said, we love you and couldn't be happier for you. So…may the road always rise up to meet you, and may good fortune and happiness walk with you wherever you go. To James and Seaborn." He raised his glass, and everyone took a second sip of champagne. "God bless you both."

* * *

Seaborn wiped her forehead and closed the trunk of the car, and looked back to watch James and his friends say goodbye. She knew there were tears in their eyes, and that it was a lot like being torn apart, but this was the way life went sometimes. She also knew they would see each other as often as they could.

She and James were moving back to Fort Bragg, for the time being, where he would be in charge of training new pilots. Face was staying in California for the time being, ostensibly for the Army but also to be near Charissa – apparently they were trying to make a go of it. B.A. was off to Fort Hood with Vanessa, where he would be training – and scaring – future Army mechanics, and Hannibal was going to Washington, where he apparently had same kind of rather mysterious job with the government now and was finally going into semi-retirement. He and Joanna were going to be married in the fall, and Seaborn was looking forward to attending _that_ party.

James came trotting up to her then, drawing her out of her musings, and he grinned at her. "Ready?"

"Yep. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. We're all right." He looked back and watched as his friends got into their respective vehicles, and knew it would be a while before he saw them again, but he felt no twinge of loneliness or despair. He opened the back door of the car and peered in at and Brett and Alec, who were both playing with their feet and burbling happily. "Heya, soldiers. Ready to go?"

At the sound of his voice, the babies looked at him and squealed, smiling and drooling happily.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. C'mon, baby. We got a plane to catch."

Seaborn let him help her into the passenger seat and stretched her legs, relaxing. He clambered in, starting up the engine, and grinned at her.

"Well, here we go. We're gonna take to married life like…"

"Goats to skiing?" she asked him, raising one eyebrow.

"That would be the sum of it, yes." He pulled out and started toward the base exit. Seaborn reached in and found her little conch shell charm, and rubbed it a moment, knowing it always brought her good luck. He flashed her one of his disarming grins and she smiled back, and they turned and confidently headed toward whatever might happen next.

_Fini_

* * *

'Get Your Preak On' was the motto/tagline for the Preakness Stakes this year – run on May 21st. Shackleford won, by the way.


End file.
